


Adamantine

by Please_Tommy_Please



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Alpha Pack, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Blackouts, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Czech translation available, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Magic, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Only one ship is endgame, Possible Teen Wolf Spoilers, Post-The Death Cure, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scott is not a true alpha, Sheriff Stilinski Knows About Werewolves, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Has Nightmares, Stiles Stilinski is Thomas (Maze Runner), Stiles-centric, The Maze Runner Spoilers, The twins can't do the 'morphing into one big alpha' thingy, Thomas/Stiles is FUCKED up, Weird Plot Shit, based on the books
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-20 11:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6004522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Please_Tommy_Please/pseuds/Please_Tommy_Please
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adamantine- (adj.) unbreakable</p><p>The pack rarely talks about Stiles.<br/>Stiles, who disappeared the summer before his and Scott's junior year of high school.<br/>Stiles, who's been missing for the past three months.<br/>Stiles, who shows up on the doorstep of the McCall household in the middle of a pack meeting.<br/>Stiles, who doesn't remember any of them.</p><p>Or the one where Stiles is Thomas and got taken by WICKED.<br/>This is set pre-season 3a of Teen Wolf and post TDC.<br/>I suggest you read the Maze Runner series before reading this. There are major spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work that relates to Teen Wolf, and I only just started season three of the show. So there won't be any huge spoilers there, but there will be for the Maze Runner.
> 
> There's a Czech version of this fanfiction being written! The link is below:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/14432382

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle your seatbelts and enjoy the ride!

Thomas doesn't know what it is. But something, _something_ is tugging at him, almost like an invisible tether. His heart aches as he recalls the past hour in his mind.

 

 _Thomas woke up alone. He was surrounded by towering trees, mind befuddled as he stared up at the cloudless blue sky. The last thing he could remember was stepping through the Flat Trans after Minho. But then he'd woken up completely and_   _utterly alone. Where was Minho? And Brenda? Where was the Paradise they'd been promised?_

_After his initial panic and concern, Thomas stumbled (quite by accident) on a road at the edge of the woods, and he forced everything from the past few days, the past few weeks, to the back of his mind. He needed to find out where he was, and drowning himself in guilt and sorrow wouldn't help._

_Though it took quite a bit of walking, Thomas was soon surrounded by houses and industrial buildings and apartment complexes. A town, obviously._

_He found himself inexplicably drawn to the police station when he saw the little establishment. At first, Thomas found himself worried about Cranks. Then he saw a man in the station. An ordinary looking man. Not disease-ridden or anything odd-looking. Whomever the man was sitting behind the main desk didn't bother to look up, even when Thomas grabbed a rectangular pamphlet out of a small case attached to the wall and sped out of there like a bat out of hell. Even though there had only been one other person in the room, he'd felt horridly uncomfortable, as if he knew the officer, and he was shaking when he exited the station._

_He quickly unfolded the pamphlet and, with vague relief, noticed the simple animated map. He navigated the map with ease, and found that he'd woken up in some clearing in the Beacon Hills Preserve. Something about it felt familiar.... Almost in the way it felt when Teresa first was sent into the Glade. Whatever memory block had been in place from the beginning — it hadn't left when Thomas went through the Trans, that much was certain. Perhaps.... Perhaps, somehow, this_ was _Paradise.... Maybe it was different for everyone, and that was why Thomas woke up by himself! But that meant that whatever reality he was currently in.... It was fake, too._

 _Thomas shuddered and shoved the frightening thought away_ _resolutely. He noticed a small cluster of houses further in town, and he found his legs moving in that direction without consciously having been aware of it. He hadn't even had to look at the map to know that, somehow, he was in the right place. That he_ is  _in the right place._

 

Thomas sighs and dismisses the last bits of the recollection.

 _How do you know this isn't another variable?_ Thomas's mind supplies darkly. He shrugs it off, not wanting to dwell on it; he knows exactly where the chain of musings will lead him, and he isn't emotionally ready for such intimidating thoughts.

Then there's that tug that pulls at his heart; that hollow strain that pulls towards the house, and he feels a pang of nostalgia staring at the wooden door in front of him. Thomas doesn't know what it is. Maybe.... Is it possible? Possible that.... that he _knows_ whoever lives here? From before WICKED?

Thomas shivers, even though he isn't cold. On the contrary, he's beginning to sweat, can feel it under his arms and bangs stuck to his forehead; whether it's from nerves or from the sun's rays soaking into his skin, he isn't sure. But the warmth outside compares nothing to the blazing agony of the Scorch. In fact, the sun looks less orange and unusual than it had before he arrived... wherever _here_ is. No, it looks.... _normal_.

He trembles, wringing his hands. His heart pounds painfully fast, aching with bittersweet memories, memories locked behind a thin veil he just wants to claw free from his mind. He bounces on his feet slightly, and the faded blue boards of the deck creak quietly. He holds himself still.

Thomas, steeling himself, knocks on the door in a rhythm vaguely familiar to him. There's a brief shuffling sound of footsteps from inside, and the door swings inward, revealing a dark-haired boy, maybe around his age, with soft brown eyes and an uneven jawline. A stab of recognition hits Thomas so hard his breathing pattern stutters and his heart jolts. And yet, when he desperately tries to capture the remembrance, it floats out of his reach.

Thomas knows that, realistically, it _has_ to be instinct. Instinct is strong, and instinct is telling him that he's _seen_  this face before.

Looking at Thomas, the other teenager's gaze is blank. Then, it's almost as if someone has slapped him across the face with a frying pan (maybe _that's_  why his jaw is asymmetrical) and the boy takes a stumbling step backwards; the shock in his eyes seems to bleed into his voice when he speaks, seems to radiate off of him in waves.

"Um.... Isaac, Jackson. C-can you guys come here, please?" the teen says, the slight tremor in his voice betraying his now impassive expression. He doesn't speak any louder than he would've had he been speaking to Thomas, but whoever he's talking to seems to hear it, and Thomas hears multiple sets of footfalls coming closer. He doesn't have more than a few seconds to ponder before two other figures (both of whom are also teenagers, Thomas is quick to assume) are at the door, one set of eyes aflame with worry and fear, the second set unamused and reproachful.

The second pair of eyes focus on Uneven Jawline, and the teen opens his sneering mouth to ask something, but then his gaze follows Jawline's, drifting over to Thomas. His mouth snaps shut, biting off whatever he was about to ask. For just one second, he looks bewildered, an expression that morphs into astonishment. Then his mask slips on once more. He gives Uneven Jawline a withering glance and grabs him by the shoulder, steering him out of the doorway in a fashion that appears ironically gentle for a teen with such a hard exterior.

He nods at Thomas, a violent jerk of his head, to enter the house, but Thomas remains where he is, feet planted on the porch. The trio stares at him, one shell-shocked and pale, one coolly blank-faced, and one so seemingly overwhelmed, his expression has settled on a look of distress. Thomas sighs, and finally asks the question bothering him.

"Who are you shanks?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter starts out pretty rough in skills of writing, but stick with me, it WILL get better.  
> This chapter is unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters used, The Maze Runner series, or Teen Wolf, which belong to James Dashner, Jeff Davis, and MTV. I own only the plot.
> 
> Let me know what you think of the idea in the comments!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas explains, and Derek is acting suspicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AYYY GUESS WHO'S HERE!?! I think I might post every Monday, but I'm shit at sticking to schedules, so PLEASE bear with me.
> 
> Did you guys hear about Dylan O'Brien getting hurt while on set for the Death Cure? God, my heart goes out to that man. He's supposed to be making a full recovery, but filming has been postponed until then. Love you, Dylan!
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters used, The Maze Runner series, or Teen Wolf, which belong to James Dashner, Jeff Davis, and MTV. I own only the plot.

And Thomas had thought that being kidnapped by the girls in Group B was awkward. But nothing can possibly compare to this.

Thomas shifts in his spot on the sofa. Poker-Face is directly to his right, a red-headed girl sitting in his lap, and a dark-skinned boy is sitting on his left, a girl with dirty blond hair relaxed into _his_ lap. The other teenager who'd shown up at the door, the one with chestnut brown curls and semi-wide eyes, is sitting in a very cozy looking armchair. A slightly older looking guy with a defined jaw and hostile expression is standing beside him, hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket, green-grey eyes absolutely piercing. Uneven Jawline is standing off to the side of the couch, arms folded across his chest. Aside from Uneven Jawline, who's zoning out at the blank TV screen positioned in front of the couch, everyone is staring unwaveringly at Thomas.

"So, where've you been for the past three months?" the girl with blond hair and semi-revealing clothes asks, a slight teasing edge to her voice. Her gaze keeps flitting up to his hair, but Thomas decides to ignore it.

"It's a long story. Honestly, you probably won't believe me when I tell you. But, first things first, you have to answer _my_ question."

" _Your_ question?" Poker-Face huffs with a raised eyebrow. Thomas nods.

"Yeah. I asked a few minutes ago, before you all hauled me in here, and I never got an answer."

"Ask, then," Uneven Jawline speaks up, tearing his eyes away from the blank television to peer at Thomas.

"Who are you guys? Did I know you? From before?" Thomas asks bluntly. He feels slightly guilty for asking, because clearly they know who he is, but he can't say who these people are for the life of him. Damn WICKED and their stupid shuck memory blocks.

Silence overtakes the room, and it isn't a comfortable silence either. Rather, it's the type of silence one would expect to fall when someone alerts their friend that their brother died. And maybe, in these peoples' minds, that's exactly what happened. Thomas shifts uncomfortably.

"Stiles.... do you...do you not remember us? At all?" Uneven Jawline asks softly, heart-broken eyes betraying how upset he really is. Perhaps the semi-hostile tone of Thomas's voice doesn't help the matter.

"What the hell is a Stiles?"

* * *

 The reaction he receives comes mainly from the red-head. She chokes out a strangled noise, but whether it's a laugh or a sob, Thomas cannot discern.

"S-Stiles.... Stiles is your _name_ ," Uneven Jawline informs, lower lip quivering and eyes beginning to tear up. "How.... How do you not remember your _name_?... Oh God, what did they _do_ to you?" Thomas can't find it in himself to answer, numbness washing over him in waves. There's not even a hint of familiarity in the name "Stiles", and  _that's_ what worries him.

The silence presses in once more, but it doesn't last as long this time.

"Where have you been for the past three months? It's your turn to answer _our_ question." It's Leather Jacket who speaks up, for the first time since Thomas arrived. Thomas looks up from where he'd been staring at his hands, clasped in his lap, and holds an even gaze with Leather Jacket. Thomas looks away first, wanting to roll his eyes. He takes a few seconds taken to collect his thoughts into a semi-intelligable answer.

"Okay, well, I'm just going to get it out and say that, whatever happened to me, getting kidnapped or whatever: I don't remember anything from before that," he says. Lord, he has so much to explain, and they're going to ask questions he doesn't have the answers to, he just knows it. "But, I'm going to ask you guys a favor. Just.... Let me talk, don't interrupt, whatever. When I'm done, ask whatever you want, but I can't guarantee I'll have solid answers; or any, for that matter."

And he begins.

 

The explanation lasts for a solid hour and a half, at a bare minimum.

Thomas talks about what he knows from the beginning, how he got sent up into the Glade and, from that moment on, everything basically went to shit. He talks about how he ran into the Maze in a vain attempt to save his friends, and how he was the first to survive out there for a whole night; he talks about Teresa, and how she looked oh-so-familiar from the moment he set eyes upon her.

Thomas tells how, after that, WICKED had taken away the sun and left the Doors open and had the Grievers take one boy a night, every night; how he and Minho had pieced together everything they could and went back out there (more than once) before finally discovering their escape via the Griever Hole. Upon seeing the confused looks, Thomas quickly explains the basics of WICKED.

"It's an anagram; World In Catastrophe, Killzone Experiment Department," he informs. "And-"

"Acronym."

"Sorry?"

"It's an acronym, not an anagram," the red-head repeats, lips pressed together and eyebrows raised in a mixed look of amusement and sass.

"....Well, see, the 'Killzone' is the brain." Uneven Jawline snickers quietly at Thomas's intentional disregard of the red-head's correction, but Thomas continues his brief explanation of WICKED. "They said they were studying us to monitor brain activity when subjected to certain tasks. But I'll get to that later."

And everyone is, for the most part, listening intently again. After that, Thomas says how Gally was controlled by WICKED, how he tried killing Thomas. How Chuck saved his life.

Thomas pauses, breathes deeply, and plows onward, doing his best to ignore that aching tightness forming in his throat.

Then Thomas is describing how their saviors broke in and, well... saved them. How the remaining Gladers had a night to recuperate before being thrust back into the Trials head-first. He speaks of Ratman, the slimy shank, and how he uncaringly sent them to the Scorch, to their deaths. Thomas is brief in talking about Brenda and Jorge, but he  _does_ go into detail about the Flare and the Cranks.

"—Whoa, whoa, wait. The 'Flare'? That's not real, there's no such thing," the blonde interrupts, frown creasing her forehead. Thomas shrugs.

"It was for us. It was the realist thing in the world. The Cranks, too. They came in different stages. Some of them were still... well, human. And others.... The furthest stage was 'past the Gone'," Thomas explains, forcibly distancing himself from his emotions. "Me and Brenda got separated from the group. We went through the Underneath (the sewers, basically), and came out on the other side of the city. After that, she showed me a sign. It said 'Thomas is the real leader', or something like that. They were up all over the city."

"'Thomas'?" Jawline repeats. "But— okay, I'm confused now. How does that relate to you? Who the hell is 'Thomas'?"

"I am," Thomas answers simply. "WICKED.... Like I said before, they took away our memories. Well, you see, they also implanted  _fake_ ones. They gave us all fake names. We just assumed the names were after famous scientists. Y'know, I was named after Thomas Edison, Newt was named after Isaac Newton, Ch...Chuck was named after Charles Darwin, Teresa named after Mother Teresa, etcetera."

Uneven Jawline falls silent.

"Well, your _real_ name is _Stiles_ ," Leather Jacket says, eyes flashing in a way that almost looks...protective. Thomas (or Stiles, apparently) swears he sees them flicker red for a moment before reverting back to green. He must be seeing things. Lord knows the stress of the past few months is probably catching up to him.

It goes quiet once more, and Thomas carries on. "...But yeah, after that, some Cranks found us, held us at gunpoint, and drugged us. The rest of the group found us after that, but before we got out, one of the Cranks...heh, one of the Cranks shot me."

Red-Head gasps, eyes scanning him for immediate injury, as though he'll start bleeding out at any moment.

"It was just my shoulder, but  _damn_ , it hurt," Thomas grimaces, rubs at his shoulder subconsciously. "I don't remember much about that, kept passing out, I think, but it must have been infected or something. WICKED, uh.... Well, they sort of broke their own rules, see.

"They took me up in one of their Bergs (which is like a helicopter), and kept me from dying. I felt fine after that, no more pain or anything. Actually..." Thomas trails off, a thoughtful frown on his face, and tugs at his shirt collar, pulls it down to reveal his bare shoulder. The pale skin of his shoulder is unblemished, showing no scar or any sign he'd once been shot. Nothing. That makes him wonder....

Thomas pauses for a moment, gathers his thoughts, and continues forth. He enlightens them as to how the surviving Gladers got to the Safe Haven and out of the Scorch, then went through the Third Trial. Which, for him, was being locked in an empty room for weeks with nothing to do but think.

Then he gets to the part about the non-immune Gladers. How Newt had been one of them. Thomas's words falter, then stop completely. Trembling, he clears his throat, and hoarsely proceeds, pointedly ignoring the concerned looks thrown his way. He, once again, distances himself from his feelings as best as he can, mumbling about how they broke free from WICKED's facility and flew to Denver and how he and Minho got their chips removed, left Newt back on the Berg, alone.

Thomas speaks, voice falling flat, of how Newt was taken to the Crank Palace while they were all in Denver. How Newt had refused to go back with them. And the others in the room seem to notice the emotionless tone of Thomas's voice, but no one calls him out on it. Thomas rumbles through an explanation about how he went back to WICKED, how he and Minho and the survivors defeated WICKED. How Teresa saved his life sacrificing her own, and how everyone else went through the Flat Trans. And how he ended up here.

He doesn't even try to explain that he had seen Newt _after_ that time in the Palace. Because it's a sensitive topic, one these strangers (because that's what they still are) don't need to know about. And Thomas doesn't know if he can distance himself from talking about that.

He finishes up the long spiel by stating that he has no idea who WICKED really is or if they're even real, or where he  _actually_ was for the past few months. Because he definitely hadn't been trekking through some Maze and deserted city fighting off monsters that definitely don't exist. There's just no way, unless they were in Area 51 or something ( _Area 51... what the hell is Area 51 and why is_ that _the connection I made?_ ). So it only makes sense that it was all a simulation. All fake.

But, if it had been a simulation... Maybe... just  _maybe_ , Chuck, and Teresa, and Newt. _Maybe they aren't really dead?_ Thomas thinks hopefully, but he doesn't allow himself to actually go into depth in thinking about it.

He heaves a loud sigh once he's done, voice slightly hoarse talking so much, muscles in his back and shoulders cramping from sitting so tensely.

"Do you think you guys could, maybe, tell me your names?" Thomas asks. Uneven Jawline looks across the room, makes eye contact with Leather Jacket. The two seem to share some sort of silent conversation before Leather Jacket scowls, nods, and turns away.

"I'm Scott," Uneven Jawline introduces himself awkwardly. He rubs his neck. "Uh... Me and you, we've sort of been best friends since we were little." Thomas nods, feels a pang of guilt that he doesn't register the name as one he knows. "Scott" looks pointedly over at Poker-Face, raises an eyebrow.

"Jackson," he mutters lowly, sounding quite annoyed, seemingly at Thomas's mere existence. He wonders if this 'Jackson' would have said more, if not for Scott's warning looks. He reminds Thomas of Gally.

The others all introduce themselves around in a circle, and the last person is Leather Jacket. Thomas's gaze flickers over to the clearly older man, awaiting his introduction. He doesn't get one. In fact, Leather Jacket isn't even  _looking_ at him. Thomas is mildly offended.

He clears his throat, raising his eyebrows expectantly. Still, Leather Jacket doesn't look, grey-green eyes fixated on something else entirely. Thomas is just about to get up and walk over there when Scott speaks.

"Come on, Der—" Leather Jacket cuts off Scott's beginnings of an annoyed complaint.

"Derek Hale," the man says gruffly, eyes narrowed. Thomas doesn't keep himself from rolling his eyes at the behavior.

"Well, who shoved a stick up _your_ ass?"

Scott snorts audibly and mumbles under his breath, "Well, at least he didn't change  _that_ much". Thomas doesn't think he's meant to hear it, but it sends a thrill of hope though him.

* * *

"Wait, so, I have a question."

"What?"

"I know this is  _your_ house, but just out of curiosity: do I have parents? Or any siblings, or anything?"

Scott's expression melts from pleasantly annoyed to a strange mix of shock, sadness, and pity in mere seconds. He hesitates, combs his fingers through his hair, then lowers his hands to rub his face. "Oh, hell, Stiles..."

"What?" he asks, voice falling into a defensive tone. Scott shakes his head.

"I just...keep forgetting you don't remember anything. You don't have any siblings, but your dad is the Sheriff."

"Oh," says Thomas, relieved. "And my mom?"

"..."

"Wha—"

"Hey Scott, get your scrawny ass down here, your mom's on the phone and she wants to talk to you," Jackson calls out, sounding annoyed as he did introducing himself to Thomas. Thomas has come to accept that that's his normal tone; at least where he and Scott are concerned. Scott's eyes glaze over and his face relaxes with obvious relief and he rushes out of his bedroom to go downstairs and answer his cell phone, which he must've left in the living room or something.

Thomas frowns, reclining back onto Scott's bed. He rubs his eyes, draping an arm across his face. It's been a long day.

"....Stiles?" says the hesitant voice of Isaac. Thomas hums and tilts his head to face the door, moving his arm and peeking his eyes open. Isaac walks in the room. He looks nervous and a bit guilty, like a child trying not to get caught sneaking a cookie from the jar.

"What's wrong?" Thomas questions with a small frown of his own, shimmying over to make room for the wavy haired teen to sit. He does indeed sit, but only perched on the edge of the bed. He's tense, and seems ready to bolt at any moment.

"I was just...wondering.... You...do you remember anything about...about what we are?"

Thomas doesn't bother pointing out Isaac's error of saying "what" rather than "who".

"I already told you guys that I don't. Why?"

"I don't mean 'who', Stiles."

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "'What you are'? What the shuck does that even mean?"

"We're not as human as you think. We-"

"Isaac!" Derek snaps, suddenly having appeared in the doorway. He looks furious. Isaac appears to shrink back and he gives Thomas a rueful look before reluctantly getting up and shuffling over to Derek, stepping out of the room when Derek moves to stop blocking the doorway.

Derek glares after him for a few moments before turning back around to glower at Thomas. Thomas feels a rush of anger towards the older male.

"What the hell was _that_ for!" he huffs angrily, leaping to his feet with a small scowl. Derek stares evenly at Thomas, and the frown that seems permanently etched to his face doesn't waver.

"What did he tell you?" he growls, rather than answer Thomas's question. Thomas glares and marches over to Derek, gets close enough that all personal space bubbles vanish completely. He matches Derek's scowl with one of his own.

"He didn't tell me anything," Thomas says through gritted teeth. Isaac hadn't done anything wrong attempting to confront him. Obviously, it had been over something Isaac thought Thomas should know. And it irritates the Glader that Derek is taking his shitty attitude out on others. He tells Derek as much.

Derek stares at him for a few moments, manner unfaltering, and Thomas wishes he could read whatever that  _look_ is that's in Derek's eyes. He gazes at Thomas for a few seconds longer, that odd countenance in his pale green eyes, before they fall back into that hard, impassive blankness.

"Scott's calling your dad. He'll be here in five minutes." With that, Derek pivots his feet and, with a strange gracefulness, walks away. Thomas steps back and begins pacing, so infuriated that he doesn't properly process Derek's words, or notice Lydia leaning against the frame of Scott's bedroom door.

Thomas runs his fingers through his hair, pushing his bangs up off of his forehead before they flop back down. _Derek, that shank, thinks he can just boss everybody around like he's the shuck alpha_ —

A pang of recollection hits him so hard it's like he fell five feet out of a tree and landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him. Gasping, Thomas whirls around in a circle, eyes wide. Something, something....

 _Something_ sparked. Something tumbled loose. And, just as quickly as it had come, it's fading.

Thomas screws his eyes shut, focusing as well as he can, breath coming in ragged pants. His teeth clamp together painfully, and he pulls at his hair, straining for the memory. He  _needs_ to remember....

"Stiles! Oh my God! Are you okay? Stiles!"

And just like that, it slips through his fingers. And at the same moment, Thomas blacks out.

* * *

**Scott**

He presses the red button on his phone and hangs up, tossing the device onto the couch with a quiet sigh. This has been one hell-of-a long day, for everyone. Scott glances over when he hears a low, but angry, voice, accusing.

"What did I tell you?" Derek bites out. "I _specifically_ told you not to say anything to him!"

Scott, though confused, can't help but gape by Isaac's blunt reply to the older male. "He has a _right_ to know, Derek!"

The alpha glowers at his beta, mouth twisting into a snarl. He opens his mouth to continue his berating, when the treading footsteps from upstairs stop and are replaced with silence. Their werewolf ears pick up Lydia's panicked shouts with ease, though they could have heard her anyway, along with the loud thump following after.

Within seconds, the pack is sprinting up the stairs. It's Derek who gets there first, face drawn into a wide-eyed look of distress that Scott has never before seen on the alpha.

Stiles is seemingly unconscious on the ground, eyes shut and body lax. His right hand is resting on his chest, fingers splayed out. His left arm is flung out away from his body, fingers curled slightly. His face is paler than usual, and his right leg is bent at the knee, left leg straight. But his body is completely motionless, aside from the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Scott notices all of this within seconds, and he finds himself staring, but then Erica shoves him out of the doorway so she can enter the room. Derek steps over, dropping down onto his knees in front of him, eyebrows cinched in a look of undisguised concern, eyes raking over the human's body. Stiles, breathing deeply, inhales a sudden and sharp gasp of air, though it cuts off in a small bout of weak coughs. He groans, and Scott's exceptional hearing distinguishes the uptick in Stiles's heart rate.

"He's fine," Jackson says offhandedly, as though he doesn't particularly care, but when Scott looks, he can see the layer of anxiousness in his eyes.

Stiles visibly shivers, fingers on his outstretched hand twitching. He starts to sit up, struggling slightly to do so, looking up with a glassy half-lidded gaze.

Scott worries his lower lip between his teeth, and he's sure that the other wolves can sense his tension. And he doesn't need super-heightened werewolf senses to detect the apprehension radiating off of everyone else. He spots familiar black veins snaking up Derek's left arm, the arm connected to the hand that's clasped around Stiles's shoulder.

 _Does that mean Stiles is hurt?_ Scott thinks anxiously.

Stiles's expression eases slightly and he sways slightly, reaching forward with a hand and grabbing Derek's leather jacket tightly, presumably to keep himself steady. Scott finds himself surprised when Derek doesn't resist, but then Stiles's eyes fall shut again and he begins mumbling, seemingly to himself.

" _Shuck_ , I almost had it..." It's disconcerting, and Stiles is still too pale, and Scott can't help but speak up.

"What's he talking about?" he asks fretfully, voice pitched an octave higher than standard for him.

"I don't know," Lydia says. She looks awfully shaken. Jackson steps up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "He just... fell. He was pacing, he looked really angry about something, but then he just...collapsed."

Dark eyelashes flutter open, and Stiles's eyes narrow ever-so-slightly. "'m right here, you know," he says in a raw voice.

"Okay. Then do you mind telling us what the hell  _that_ was?" Jackson queries, voice thick with irritation. Stiles licks his lips, eyebrows tugging downward in a frown. He releases his hold on Derek, shakily getting to his feet. Derek's hand drops from Stiles's shoulder, and he stands up as well, arms folding across his chest. Scott notices the way Stiles has inched over to the wall, leaning part of his weight against it as he stands, but doesn't say anything about it.

"I was thinking about something and it just triggered something.... It was like I almost remembered..." Stiles sighs.

"Remembered what?" Boyd asks with a skeptically raised eyebrow.

"That's the problem; I don't know," Stiles snaps.

"What were you thinking about that caused it?"

"Well, I was mad at Derek," he says.

"I'm curious as to how exactly being mad at _me_ plays into this," Derek says, eyes fixed on Stiles. His glower looks less menacing then normal, more confused.

"I don't think it was _that_ , exactly. It was...more of my thought process after you left," he says slowly, expression thoughtful. A small crease forms between his eyebrows as he frowns. "Something about you thinking you can boss everyone around, that you think you're the alpha of everyone..." Stiles trails off at the sharp intakes of breath from both Derek and Isaac.

"What?" asks Stiles.

"Stiles, you-"

Derek whirls around to face Isaac, half-snarl emitting from his throat. From Scott's angle, he can see the livid, almost goading expression on his face, as if  _daring_ Isaac to speak. The beta scowls, but remains grudgingly quiet. Scott can smell the wolf's frustration.

"What? What is it?" Stiles demands, frowning confusedly at the exchange he had evidently missed. "If there's something you know that you aren't telling me-"

"Don't worry about it, Stiles," Derek cuts in sharply, turning back around to face the human, even as Isaac slinks sullenly out of the room. Stiles glares and opens his mouth, but the ringing of the doorbell downstairs keeps him from saying whatever he'd been intending (and Scott has _no_ clue what that would've been). Stiles's face twists into a look of confusion.

"Who's that?" he asks.

"Let's go see," Scott shrugs, even though he knows _exactly_ who is at the door. But it's something (some _one_ ) Stiles should probably see for himself. Maybe... _maybe he'll even recognize him?_

Scott can only hope.

The pack trudges down the stairway. Scott can see that everyone looks hopeful, aside from Derek and Isaac. Derek looks like he swallowed a big mouthful of something rotten, as per usual. And Isaac... He looks like someone just ran over his puppy. Scott frowns, decides that, later, he'll have a talk with the sulking beta.

Scott's train of thought gets sidetracked when he sees Jackson set forward to open the door, nodding gruffly to Stiles's dad when he steps inside. Looking past him, out the door, Scott notices absentmindedly that it's nearly evening, and the sun is just starting to dip below the horizon. But that's not what Scott is paying attention to. No, his focus is on the desperately hopeful look on the Sheriff's face. His eyes dart around the group.

"Where's my son?" he asks hoarsely. "Where's Stiles?"

 "...Dad?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think in the comments below! How did you like the POV change to Scott's?  
> I thrive on the support~


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas is becoming increasingly more suspicious of his how his friends, particularly Derek, are acting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY LATE EASTER, EVERYONE! I posted on Monday again! *feels proud of myself*
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters used, The Maze Runner series, or Teen Wolf, which belong to James Dashner, Jeff Davis, and MTV. I own only the plot.
> 
> MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE DEATH CURE. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
> 
> POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNINGS (I'm including these just to be safe) - Dark thoughts, non-graphic descriptions of blood, hallucinations.
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.

When Jackson opens the door, Thomas is almost expecting another teenager; another friend he doesn't remember, perhaps. But what he definitely  _isn't_ expecting is the man he saw sitting behind the desk earlier that day at the police station. Except now, instead of staring vacantly at an old newspaper article, he's frantically shoving his way inside.

"Where's my son?" he asks breathlessly, dark smudges under his eyes and a haggard appearance evidence of past rough nights. "Where's Stiles?"

Through context, Thomas knows this man can't be anyone except his dad. But looking at him, closer now than before at the station.... There's not even the slightest _glimmer_  of a memory. Still, it's almost overwhelming, looking at him now and realizing that he'd seen his father earlier that same day but not having known it.

"Dad?" he asks lowly, almost a whisper, taking the smallest of steps forward. The man, dressed in police uniform, badge dully glinting off his chest, sucks in a shuddering breath and his clouded eyes lock with Thomas's.

"Oh my God... Stiles?" he whispers, voice hitching. Thomas finds himself, not entirely of his own accord, stumbling towards the man, pulling him into a tight embrace.

"Don't you ever do that again," his dad orders, hold firm. "We've been looking for three months. _Three months_.... Oh God, I can't lose you too, Stiles; not after your mom... I don't know what I'd have done..."

Thomas feels a slight pang of guilt, despite the fact that his capture was in no way his fault. "I'm sorry," he mumbles truthfully. "I'm sorry."

After a few more moments, Thomas pulls out of the embrace, remaining comfortably close to his dad's side. There's this...almost aura about him, one that makes Thomas feel safe. It's a good feeling.

"...Are you okay? They didn't hurt you, did they?" his father asks, suddenly fretful, placing a hand on Thomas's cheek and turning his head to the side as if to check for damage.

"I'm fine," Thomas assures. Seemingly mollified with this response, the Sheriff allows his hands to drop from Thomas's face. One of them falls to his side, but the other gently clasps Thomas's shoulder, as though he's afraid his son will slip away again if he doesn't have a hold of him.

"Okay.... So, all teary welcome-homes aside, how're you doing, Mr. Stilinski?" Scott asks, grinning. Thomas snorts out a quiet laugh.

"Better now, definitely. But, I hope you kids don't mind if I take him home now. Tomorrow's going to be pretty rough, too, and I think we both deserve the rest."

* * *

Having perpetually been busy with one thing or another since the second he arrived in the Glade, Thomas was never given much time to think beyond the situation at hand. But now, lying in his actually-pretty-shucking-comfortable bed, that's all he  _can_ do. Even utterly spent, he can't seem to stay still for more than a few seconds, and it's beyond frustrating because _how the hell am I supposed to sleep when I can't stop_ moving _?_

Aggrieved, Thomas shifts uncomfortably under his blankets, grumbling to himself as he resettles into a different position for the fiftieth time. He slides his arms under his pillow and readjusts himself so his bed-shirt isn't twisted sideways beneath his stomach. He carelessly fluffs his pillow, mushing his face into the cotton. He forces himself to relax, thinking about the Glade and how, albeit very briefly, peaceful it had been between the time he showed up and when he first ran into the Maze.

Strained memories of shared laughs and Frypan's decent cooking lull him to sleep.

 

**_Kill me. If you've ever been my friend, kill me._ **

_"You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here and asking me to leave with you. A lot of bloody nerve. The sight of you makes me_ sick _."_

_"I tried to **kill myself** in the Maze."_

_"I hated the place, Tommy. I hated every second of every day. And it was all… your… **fault**!"_

_"I hate you, Tommy! I hate you I hate you I hate you!"_

_"Kill me, you shuck coward. Prove you can do the right thing. Put me out of my misery."_

_"KILL ME!"_

_"Please, Tommy. **Please**."_

_"I hate you! **I always hated you**!"_

 

_No...No no no no... **NO!**_

 

It's more the noise than the pain itself that wakes Thomas up. Eyelids shooting open, the Glader distinguishes nothing but darkness. It constricts his lungs like a vice, presses against his eyes horribly. He chokes on a strangled gasp for air, right hand flying back. It hits the wall behind him painfully, then begins sliding downward, catching on a small switch. He flips it up with his fingers and cries out at the overwhelmingly blinding burst of florescent light suddenly filling the room. He squints, almost closes his eyes completely as he allows his vision to adjust.

He notices first that he's in the bathroom, the one just down the hall from his bedroom. He looks up, sees the shattered mirror above the sink, splintering cracks webbing outwards from the center, which is smeared with blood. Blood also seems to be streaming out of his nose, coating his lips and dripping down his chin. Oh, and his left hand is bloody, too. Cuts scatter all across his knuckles in various lengths, and he watches, sickly fascinated, as a forming droplet of blood meets with another; how the now-larger bead of red liquid glides down the back of his hand, curving down the side of his wrist and dripping off onto the white tile floor.

He doesn't notice his dad's broken reflection, or his presence at all, until he's grabbing Thomas by the shoulders and forcing him to meet his panicked eyes. His mouth is moving rapidly, but his words don't register in Thomas's mind, sound muffled and warped, and all he can think is  _oh my god oh my god oh my god I killed him. I killed all of them._

And though he doesn't recall ever having one during his time with WICKED, Thomas knows he's having a panic attack. His chest heaves for air he can't seem to get, and he's panting, hands shaking. He presses his uninjured hand to his chest, pulling at his shirt, gasping. Thomas sinks to the floor, pressing his back up against the wall, wheezing.

"...iles. Stiles. Hey, you need to calm down. Look, just breathe. Breathe, son," the Sheriff's voice never raises to a shout, but Thomas can feel tears starting to burn in his eyes, and he chokes out a breathless cry.

"Can't," he rasps, "I-I can't."

"Hey, hey, yes you can. Look at me, Stiles. Stiles. Stiles! _Look at me. Breathe_."

And he does. The noose squeezing his chest slackens, and he greedily draws in large lungfuls of air, shuddering gasps. He steals a look at his dad, sees the terrified demeanor, and decides he just _can't_.

He goes limp, relaxed, and closes his eyes, allowing his head to tilt backwards and bump against the wall behind him. He sniffles, grimacing at the metallic taste. Tears build and sting in his eyes, escaping their confines behind Thomas's closed eyelids. "I'm sorry."

Both individuals know that Thomas isn't talking to his father.

"I'm _so_ sorry."

* * *

Thomas doesn't remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up, he's back in his bed, and hushed voices resound from the hallway outside his half-closed door.

"No, go ahead and let him sleep. I-I've gotta go. Just... keep an eye on him, okay? If anything happens, call me."

"He'll be fine, Mr. Stilinski."

"...You didn't see him last night, Scott. It was.... It was like a panic attack, but worse, I think. He hasn't had one that bad since.... Look, just please, make sure he doesn't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"You have my word."

Thomas slowly slides out from beneath the sanctuary of his warm covers, shivering, intending to sneak over to his door and eavesdrop further, but the sound of a floorboard creaking, followed by footsteps stops him. Instinct kicks in, and he ducks down, avoiding a pair of outstretched hands. Thomas weaves his way behind the intruder, standing up fully, adrenaline-fueled body anticipating a fight.

The intruder turns around, and it takes Thomas a moment to recognize him. The shocked, almost awed expression on Derek's face is what throws Thomas off.

"Derek, what the-"

The older man's expression slips back into that hostile look, and he glares.

"Be quiet. Your father wouldn't be happy to know I'm here."

Thomas's eyes narrow. "Why?"

Derek doesn't bother to answer that, just silently brooding in that way that he does, staring at the partially opened door. Thomas follows his gaze, about to ask what the hell he's waiting for, when Scott is slipping into the room, latching the door behind him. He doesn't seem surprised by Derek's appearance, only annoyed, perhaps exasperated.

"Derek? What are you _doing_ here?" Scott hisses with little fire to his tone. "You know that his dad is sort of the freaking _Sheriff_ , and he would not hesitate to, oh I don't know, _shoot you_ in your freaking face?"

Thomas makes a small, unintentional noise at the choice of words. Scott's sudden worry for him is palpable. He sends him an apprehensive look, but Thomas ignores it as well as he can.

"Shut up, Scott," Derek says, taking the teen's attention away from Thomas.

"...You didn't answer my question," Scott points out after a few moments of tense silence. "What are you doing here?"

"It's none of your concern!" Derek snaps, glowering. Scott frowns for a moment, pins Derek under the scrutiny of his curious gaze, before backing off slightly, raising his hands in a defensive manner.

"Okay, not my business, whatever. By the way, why the hell did you tell Isaac that we can't-" Derek growls — actually shucking _growls_ , what the hell? — at Scott, cutting off his words. Scott frowns.

"You know, I agree with Isaac on this one. It's his right to know, Derek, and you're-"

"Scott, if you don't stop talking, I'm going to rip your throat out. With my teeth." Silence stretches on for longer than is comfortable, room filled with tension, and it's only Isaac's dramatic entrance that breaks it. The teen bursts into the room, hair disarrayed and eyes wild. His chest is heaving, as though he'd been sprinting.

"Derek, we've got a problem! The Alpha Pack, they-" Derek all-but lunges forward, grabbing Isaac roughly by the bicep and dragging him out of the room. Scott shoots Thomas an anxious look, eyes trailing down to where Thomas's left hand dangles by his side, before chasing after them.

Subconsciously, Thomas balls his hands into loose fists, but the movement sends a surprising sting and ache across his knuckles. He raises his hand to look, but it's wrapped in sterile white gauze. More cautious this time, he gently curls his fingers in towards his palm, lightly rubbing his right thumb over the dressings.

 _Alpha Pack... What did Isaac mean by 'Alpha Pack'? Is that some sort of code for something?_  Thomas glances over at the computer lying on his desk. He remembers enough that he knows how to use the device, but, clearly, this is something that Derek doesn't want him knowing about. _Why is that?_

Alpha Pack... _Maybe that's what Derek was trying to hide from me the other day! The word 'alpha' must have something to do with something that he doesn't want me finding out about..._

Thomas resolves to research as much as he can on the, admittedly broad, topic when he has the time. But, for now, he's going to play it safe, not say anything about it near or around Derek. Who knows? Maybe Isaac will help him; he seems like he'd be the most willing participant.

 

"Hey, Stiles! Get your ass out here, we're going to the movies! I  _cannot_ allow you to not have seen  _Deadpool_  before school starts! And school starts in two days, and this is the only time I can take you so come _on_!" Erica's shouting loud enough to annoy the entire neighborhood, and Thomas, because he really doesn't need any more humiliation, reluctantly tromps out of his house.

"That was a double negative," he says. He walks over to the blonde, scowling at her from where she sits in a  _very_ nice looking black vehicle. He has a feeling it isn't hers.

"Derek's," she says when he reaches the car, probably reading the questioning expression on his face. Thomas glances back at the house, where he knows Isaac, Derek, and Scott are talking in low voices, which had stopped abruptly when Thomas has walked downstairs. It doesn't offend him as much as it irritates him.

" _Derek_ is letting you borrow his car?" Erica smirks and, seatbelt not buckled, leans over across the passenger seat and opens the door for him. The vehicle's still running, so Thomas climbs in, pulling the door shut after him.

"Yeah, well," she shrugs, "I think he doesn't mind, as long as: one, I don't hurt it and two, it keeps you from overhearing his conversation with Isaac and Scott. But he doesn't know I'm taking you, so this had better be worth it. I'd rather _not_ have my throat ripped out." Thomas raises an eyebrow, clicking his seatbelt into place. That's the second time in the past hour he's heard that phrase in relation to Derek.

"What does that even mean?" he asks. She swivels her head in his direction, grins impishly, before gunning back onto the road so fast, Thomas (though slightly fearing for his life) lets out an ecstatic whoop of excitement, fumbling to press the button to roll down his window.

Leaning forward in his seat, Thomas catches a glimpse of himself in the side view mirror. His eyes widen slightly as he takes in his appearance. He'd seen himself the other night in his bathroom mirror, but his reflection had been shattered and distorted, and, honestly, his looks hadn't exactly been on his mind. But now, thinking about it, he really  _does_ look different.

Back in the Glade and in the Scorch, from hard days work out in the sun, he'd gotten a dark tan, and his arms, legs, and torso had had an exceptional build-up of muscles that gave him quite the lithe physique, perfect for a Runner. But now, looking at himself, there's none of that. His skin is pasty and pale, and his biceps definitely aren't as muscular, his body no longer possessing the strength he'd accumulated throughout the Trials.

The only thing he sees that he can compare to his time with WICKED is his hair. His hair is styled quite the same, bangs flopping down over his forehead. Except, in the Scorch, he never had a chance to shower and clean his hair. Now, having taken a shower after Scott had fled his room after Derek and Isaac, he rakes his fingers through his mop, feels the surprising softness of it. His bangs are starting to grow out, and they're just in his line of vision enough to bother him. Maybe he can ask Lydia or someone how to style his hair in a way that suits him. It isn't so much that he cares how he looks, but that he doesn't want to draw attention to himself because he looks like a shank.

"...d?" Thomas, frowning, rolls up his window, cutting off the lashing wind filling his ears. He leans back into his seat, wiggling to get more comfortable, and turns his head towards Erica.

"'m sorry, what?"

"What happened to your hand?" she asks, a troubled glint in her eyes. Thomas suddenly wishes he hadn't rolled up his window to hear her. How will he explain this without making her worried? He supposes he could lie, but somehow he thinks Erica would be able to pick it out with ease.

"Um... I, uh, I punched a mirror," he admits uncomfortably. Erica squints at him, imprisoning him in her scrutinizing, nonplussed frown. He's just about to suggest she watch the road when she finally tears her eyes away form him to look through the windshield. Maybe she senses his discomfort or something, because she says nothing else on the subject for the rest of the ride.

* * *

 "Where have you been?" Derek demands immediately. Erica shoots Thomas a sideways glance and slides out of the driver's seat, pulling a sassy face and folding her arms across her chest. 

"Keep your panties on, Derek; we just got back, and we only went to the movies-"

"Did I say you could take my car? Or Stiles, for that matter?"

"Hey, I'm right here!" Thomas snaps indignantly, unbuckling himself quickly and scrambling out of the vehicle, slamming the door with a bit more force than necessary. Derek snaps his eyes over and glares silent daggers at him. Thomas returns the look with a scowl of his own. Derek's attempts to intimidate him the past few hours are less intimidating than Bark, the dog back in the Glade.

Erica, clearly uncomfortable, speaks up.

"Lay off him, Derek. Besides, I'm the one who-"

"I didn't say you could-"

"Would you stop interrupting me!" Erica snaps, frustration evident on her face. "Ever since he got back, you've been trying to control everything he does! He's not your little pet, Derek, so stop treating him like it!"

Derek growls, and Erica seems to realize she went too far. She lowers her eyes to the ground. "Derek, I-"

"I will talk to _you_ later," he hisses through gritted teeth. "Go inside."

Thomas watches, baffled by the exchange, as Erica hastily walks, almost jogging, towards the house. She closes the door quietly after her, leaving Thomas alone with Derek in the short driveway.

Thomas decides to be the bigger person and explains himself in a calm tone. "I chose to go with her, you know. I was perfectly safe. And-"

"Let me see your hand." Derek, it seems, has a bad habit of interrupting people.

Thomas folds his arms across his chest in an obvious display of defiance, a challenging look in his eyes as he cocks an eyebrow at the older man. Derek glares, but when he sees this does nothing, he doesn't hesitate to reach forward and grab Thomas's wrist, yanking him forward sharply. His hold isn't tight enough to hurt, but it is tight enough that Thomas doesn't try to pull his hand away.

With a gentleness Thomas wouldn't expect, Derek carefully unwraps the gauze on his knuckles and surveys his hand closely. He parts each fingers, bends them forward into a fist, gently tugs them backwards, and Thomas grudgingly lets him do it (it doesn't hurt very bad, just a dull sting accompanied by the pressing ache of a forming bruise).

"You're fine," Derek says after a moment, rewrapping the bandages and finally loosening his grip on Thomas's wrist. Thomas pulls his hand away from Derek, allowing it to fall to his side. Derek stares at him with that _look_ , the one Thomas can't identify.

Feeling no need to explain himself, Thomas steps past the older male and walks up to the house, opening the door and stepping inside. He shuts the door behind him and turns around. Only to see everyone staring at him.

"What?" he snaps. Instead of looking away sheepishly, everyone continues staring. Thomas frowns. "What-"

"Why'd you kill him, Stiles? Chuck, I mean." Thomas's jaw drops, and his eyes center on Isaac (who, ironically enough, kind of reminds Thomas of the chubby little boy from the Glade). He's still staring.

"I-I, what-"

"Why did you kill him?" he interrupts.

"I didn't!" Thomas snaps defensively. Isaac's blank expression turns into a light smirk. It's dark and unnerving, and it just looks _wrong_.

"No," he agrees. He stands up, having been wedged between Erica and Scott on the couch, and walks over, smile widening. "You just _stood_ there. You  _stood_ there, and you watched him die."

Thomas can't find his voice. Erica gets to her feet, walking over.

"What's the matter, Stiles? Cat got your tongue?"

Thomas shakes his head jerkily. "I didn't kill any of them," he says.

"Oh? Not Teresa, then? _Think_ , Stiles," Erica hisses. "If you had died instead of Chuck, Teresa wouldn't have had to push you out of the way. Or, you know, you could have just  _moved_ instead. A few steps forward, and the girl who was once your friend would still be alive."

Thomas's hands are shaking. He crams them into his jacket pockets. He takes a small step backwards. Isaac and Erica don't pursue him, but then Scott's standing up from the sofa, walking over to join in the verbal attack.

"Come on, Scott," Thomas pleads. Because Thomas was told Scott was his best friend before all this happened. Surely he would defend him? How do they know this anyway? Thomas hadn't gone into this much detail during his explanation. "I-"

"Oh, come on, Thomas." Thomas falters, not having expected the name. Scott smirks. "You killed them, and you know it. All of your friends are dead, and all of their deaths are _your fault_."

Thomas tenses, shock stopping his handd from shaking. " _Stop,_ " he whispers lowly. Scott doesn't listen.

"Think about it. Just think for a second. If you would have willingly given yourself up, been the cure, Newt would have been... well, _cured_. But instead you ran away, just like you _always_ do. It's all you're good for, isn't it? Running away.

"He didn't have to die. None of them did. But, as usual, you just fucked  _everything_ up. You killed your friends, Thomas."

Thomas's body reacts before his brain can, and suddenly he's tackling Scott to the ground, punches raining down. Scott grunts (either in surprise or pain) and raises his arms to block the hits, but he doesn't swing back.

"I didn't kill them! I _didn't_!" Thomas screams, voice cracking. His knuckles feel bruised and hurt, and Scott doesn't even look like he's taking damage, but Thomas continues to beat on Scott's arms, face, chest, anything he can reach. "IT'S NOT MY FAULT!"

Fingers wrap around his wrists, pull his hands away from Scott. Thomas struggles against the hold, releasing a frustrated cry as the grip tightens.

"-calm down! Stiles, _please_ calm down! _Stiles_! STILES!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm terrible. I know.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas finally starts looking for answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short, but next week's is gonna be LONG as hell. Um, enjoy? There's lots of fluff to make up for next week's chapter too.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own The Maze Runner or Teen Wolf. These belong to James Dashner and Jeff Davis/MTV.
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.

Isaac pulls Thomas off of Scott, holds him back in a tight grip. Thomas finally stops struggling, heart still pounding erratically. He stares unsurely at the boy getting up from the floor in front of him. Scott was just sneering about how Thomas killed his friends, and now he's standing in front of Thomas, holding his hands up defensively and talking in a comforting tone.

"Hey, hey, calm down; there you go." Scott grimaces. "Shit... um, Erica? Go get, like, a towel or something. His hand's bleeding pretty bad."

Thomas glances at his hand. Surely enough, the white gauze is stained red and his knuckles sting deeply. His cuts must've broken open when he was punching Scott.

"Thanks," Scott says once Erica hands him the rag. Scott looks at Thomas, expression unsure, and takes a small step towards him. Thomas tenses, but allows Scott to remove the gauze and replace it with the dishrag. Isaac shifts his grip on Thomas's wrists, but doesn't let go.

"What just happened?" Thomas asks after a moment, voice wavering. Scott glances up for a second before his gaze darts away from Thomas's in favor of looking at the Glader's injured hand.

"I don't know, man. You just...you snapped at us for staring at you, so we all looked away, but you started talking to yourself, and you looked almost..like, betrayed, and you told us to stop. But we weren't even...we didn't even say anything. You just sorta...freaked out."

Scott visibly hesitates. Thomas notices a smudge of blood on Scott's cheek, but no cut. It must be from Thomas's hand, then.

"Then I walked over and asked you what was wrong, and you just tackled me and started wailing on me and yelling."

Erica takes a tentative step forward, conflicting emotions battling for dominance on her face. "Do...should we call Derek? I mean, he only _just_ left."

"No," Thomas says quickly. He's not even annoyed that Isaac said it at the same time, in the same firm tone of voice.

"There's no point in telling him. It's fine," Isaac says, finally letting go of Thomas's wrists and stepping away from the teen.

"...Um, Scott?" _That's a new voice.... No, it isn't. I've_ heard _that voice before._  Thomas's eyes snaps up towards the stranger, though he keeps his head tilted down. Like with the others, her black curls and soft features seem distantly familiar, and he just wants to slam his head into a wall until his memory block comes toppling down like a Jenga tower.

_What the shuck is a "Jenga"?_

"What's wrong, Allison?"  _Allison...name fits the face, I guess._

"Maybe we should go see Deaton. _That_...isn't exactly  _normal_ ," she says. _Wow, that sure makes me feel better, Allison._  "Plus, we need to go see him anyway. Weren't you the one saying we should find out what he knows about the Alpha Pack? And why they just up and left?"

_Aha! "Alpha Pack"! There it is again!_

The look Scott gives Thomas is hesitant, like part of him doesn't want his friend to hear the conversation. Thomas sees an opening. He goes for it.

"Scott, what's 'the Al-"

"Okay, yeah, good idea," he replies to Allison, effectively cutting off Thomas's question. He glowers. "Let me rewrap Stiles's hand, and we'll go."

* * *

The group squeezes into Thomas's Jeep, Scott at the wheel. It really isn't meant to carry five people at once, but they make it work. Allison sits up front in the passenger seat next to Scott, and Thomas gets crammed in between Erica and Isaac.

 Not the most comfortable, and Thomas is starting to sweat from too much body-heat around him ( _Erica and Isaac are like freaking furnaces, Jesus Christ_ ). He's mentally complaining about how he just wants the day to be over already, even though it can't be past, like, four o'clock yet, when they pull to a stop in some parking lot. Isaac gets out first, then Thomas slides out, and Erica follows after. Allison and Scott are murmuring about something or other, sharing a brief kiss before climbing out their respective sides of the vehicle. Scott walks around the Jeep to join the rest of the group. Thomas looks towards the building.

"Scott, you drove us to the vet clinic?" Because Thomas recognizes the place. He remembers, very vaguely, sometimes driving Scott there to work. He works there.

Scott glances over at him and nods after a pause. "Yeah." The group stand outside for a few moments, soaking up the sunlight (which is really very nice, even despite the fact that Thomas was just overheating next to two human furnaces). "Okay. Let's go."

The way he says it, it sounds like they're setting out on some sort of important mission or something.  _Oh Scott; always the melodramatic._

Of course, the moment the group shuffles into the clinic, they're getting weird looks. The looks come from one lady, who happens to be the only other person in the clinic. The animal she's holding, a small black and white-furred kitten, starts mewling. Somehow, it succeeds in sounding agitated. The thing even lets out a little hiss. Thomas grins and steps forward, standing on Scott's right.

"Aww, you're a vicious little thing, aren't you?" he coos. The kitten, which can't be bigger than Thomas's foot ( _"Geez, shank, you got big feet."_ ), continues meowing. It grumbles lowly and wiggles free from the woman's hands, hopping off of her lap and onto the floor. It staggers slightly before righting itself, then trots over to Thomas like they've known each other for years. The kitten mews again, pawing at his shoelace. Chuckling, Thomas lowers himself down to the floor, sitting cross-legged with his back up against the wall. The kitten wastes no time in crawling up onto his calf, front paws placed on his knee. It looks up at him with bright hazel eyes and meows again. He taps the pads of his first two fingers on its head, and the sudden purring is surprisingly loud for such a small animal.

"Wow, you've got a nice motor there," he observes with a light smirk. He looks up towards the owner, who's staring down at her cat and the strange boy in something equivalent to admiration. "Is it a boy or a girl?"

"Boy. His name's Castiel. My daughter named him," the woman answers. She huffs out a quiet laugh of what sounds like disbelief. "You know, the reason I brought him in here is because I wanted the vet to see if he's got a history dealing with an abusive family. I got him last week, and he won't go near me or my daughter. Just hides underneath the furniture and hisses all the time. But, it looks like he likes _you_ plenty."

Thomas cracks a smile down at the kitten, who's drawn out his tiny claws and is trying to climb up his chest. He scoots forward slightly and slumps his back against the wall to give the kitten less of a vertical slope. "Well, I don't think I've ever had a cat before, so I take it as a compliment. Thanks, Castiel."

The kitten mews and paws at his hoodie strings. Thomas tucks them into his jacket, running his fingertips down the kitten's back. "Sorry, Cas. Just don't want to you tear up my jacket with those little claws of yours." Castiel rumbles out a loud purr, tail swishing, and climbs higher on Thomas, claws digging into his jacket. He finally seems to get where he was trying to go when he's got his front paws up in Stiles's hair, back legs balancing on his shoulder.

"Ah, Ms. Agnes. Back again, I see?" Thomas glances up, both at the new voice and at the woman's title.  _Agnes. Like Teresa?..._

"What can I say, Dr. Deaton," she smiles, standing up from one of the plastic chairs. "Well, I came because the kitten I got last week keeps acting up and refusing to be around people, but..."

Both Ms. Agnes and the vet look over at Thomas. Castiel meows from his sitting perch on Thomas's head, tail flicking against his temple. Thomas just hopes he doesn't unsheathe his claws; he doesn't need those little needles digging into his scalp, thank you very much, Castiel.

"But he isn't around Mr. Stilinski here?" Ms. Agnes nods. The vet hums lightly, walking over to pet Cas on the head. The kitten hisses loudly, and his tail starts thrashing so violently, his whole body moves with the jerking movements. But Cas still hasn't brought out his claws, which Thomas is thankful for. The vet ( _Deaton_ , if Thomas remembers correctly) takes a step back; Castiel relaxes slightly.

"Hey now," Thomas chides, reaching up to pull the kitten off of his head. Cas doesn't resist, just lets himself be lifted. Thomas glances up, meets Scott's confused eyes, and shrugs. He looks back down at the cat in his hands. "Be nice," he mumbles lowly to the kitten, who seems to have engaged in a staring contest with Thomas. Cas mewls and slowly raises his front right paw. He holds it there for a moment, up in the air, before bringing it down to bat Thomas on the nose. Thomas laughs.

"Go on," he nods, setting the kitten on the ground. He looks up at Thomas pitifully. Stiles sighs, gesturing to Ms. Agnes. "She's your owner, not me. Go on. And be nice."

Surprising everyone in the room, little Cas does just that. He turns away from Thomas and teeters over to the lady. He doesn't growl or hiss even once. When he reaches her, he puts his front paws up on her pant leg and reaches up towards her, meowing. Clearly startled, Mr. Agnes leans down to pick him up. Like with Thomas, Castiel doesn't fight it, just settles into the woman's arms, purring contentedly, eyes narrow slits. How strange.

"Interesting. But it seems as though your kitten is no longer avoiding you?" Deaton says. "If it happens again, come by again, and I'll see if I can find any of his history before you adopted him. But he's very young, so that may not be the issue."

Agnes nods. "All right. Thank you." The last part seems more directed at Thomas, but before he can say anything at all, she weaves her way through the group of teenagers and out the door.

Thomas raises himself to his feet. He looks away from the incredulous stares of his friends. "You're Deaton, right?" he asks, turning to the vet instead. The dark-skinned man frowns, seemingly confused, but then he glances at Scott, and the look clears away. He smiles warmly.

"Yes I am, Stiles. And I'm assuming you're all here for a reason?" The looks he receives seem to answer him. He nods and opens the small gate leading behind the counter. "I'm assuming this isn't something the public should be hearing; let's take it to the back."

* * *

"So, Stiles, you've been having hallucinations, nightmares, and your nose started bleeding yesterday after a nightmare?"

Thomas nods. "I punched a mirror too. But I think it's the nose thing that's freaking them out. And what just happened back there, with the cat," he says, gesturing over to Scott and the others. Deaton peers closely at Thomas, who's seated up on his examination table, and hums thoughtfully.

"Nose bleeds can be random occurrences. Perhaps it was just a coincidence." Thomas hesitates, but shakes his head.

"Uh, I doubt it."

"Yes, it never really tends to be a coincidence in Beacon Hills, does it?" he asks rhetorically. The vet falls silent for a few moments, appearing deep in thought, and Thomas starts tapping his fingers on the cold metal of the table below him. He glances over at the group.

Scott is shifting from foot to foot impatiently, Allison's left hand clasped tightly in his right. Allison herself seems relatively calm, but her eyes shine with worry. Erica is picking at her nails, examining them closely. She doesn't look worried, but somehow, Thomas knows she is. Isaac is bouncing on the balls of his feet, biting at his thumbnail anxiously.

"Nose bleeds," Deaton begins slowly, reigning in everyone's attention, "can be caused by many things. Air too dry, scratching and messing with your nose, and sometimes it just happens, amongst other things. But, though it's rather rare, nose bleeds can be results of high stress and anxiety."

Thomas frowns. "So, you're saying my nightmare caused it?"

"It would seem the most plausible answer, yes," Deaton nods. "And I believe what happened outside with Ms. Agnes's kitten can be explained, too. Cats are very intelligent creatures, very smart and cunning. Foxes may be of the canine family, but they receive many of their impulses and behaviors from cats. At first, when I saw what was happening, I thought Castiel must have had a bad history, particularly with females, hence his avoidance of both Ms. Agnes and her daughter. But when I tried going near him, I knew that couldn't be it.

"Like I said, cats are very intelligent animals. As a younger kitten, it could very well be that Castiel was trying to comfort you. Perhaps he sensed your stress and anxiety, or maybe pain. Are you hurting, Stiles?"

All at once, everyone is looking at Thomas again. He hesitates, takes a moment to think about it. "...Physically or emotionally?"

Deaton's lips curve up into a smile. "For the sake of things, let's say physically."

Thomas hums. He curls his fingers. It doesn't really hurt, just aches a little bit. And the cuts are kind of itchy, but that's good, a sign of healing. He has a bit of a headache, but that could be the stress getting to him. Nothing really  _hurts_ , but everything aches.

He looks around the room for a clock. He spots one just above the door. The ticking hands say four thirty-six. He stares at the clock, thinking about his exclusive Runner watch back in the Glade and wondering what happened to it.

"Stiles?" He snaps out of his train of thoughts. Scott looks very concerned.

"Oh, um no, no pain. I'm kind of tired, though," he explains, fingertips drumming on the smooth surface below him. Scott's frown deepens.

"Stiles, have you taken your Adderall today?" he asks.

"My what? Adderall? What would I take Adderall for?"

Scott rubs his hands over his face, and Isaac's eyebrows raise so high, Thomas is almost impressed.

"ADHD," Scott finally says. "You take Adderall for your ADHD. I'm surprised your dad didn't make you take any last night."

Thomas shrugs. "I mean, I probably wouldn't have remembered either, if my kid randomly showed up after being missing for three months," he points out. Scott sighs and nods.

"I guess." But all Thomas can think is, _I never had any problems with ADHD or focusing during the Trials..._ Thomas's train of thought derails when Isaac speaks up.

"So, Doc, is there something wrong with Stiles, or is all this hallucinations, nightmares, punching mirrors crap normal?"

The vet hums thoughtfully. "Well, given what you've been through, Stiles, I would say it's all justified. In fact, if you were to take him to a professional, odds are he'd be diagnosed with PTSD. But, that aside, there was something else you wanted to talk to me about?" Deaton asks. Allison perks up at this, nodding.

"It, uh, it has to do with the Alpha Pack. Can you tell us anything about them? About why they just left?" she asks. Thomas stills and focuses. He needs to hear this. Maybe no one will acknowledge he's in the room if he doesn't say anything.

"It depends on what you want to hear. I know they've left Beacon Hills out of the blue, but I'm not entirely sure why. I might have a few theories, but, unless they come back, I'm not sure they can be proved."

"At this point, theories are better than nothing," Scott says. Thomas finds himself quickly becoming distracted. Maybe he should have taken his Adderall.... But how come he was always focused in the Maze and the Scorch? He surely wasn't popping pills then.

Thomas's eyes drift lazily around the room. Little jars of random herbs and... _what's in that jar? What_ is  _that? Are those_ teeth _?_

His eyes settle on one particular container. The jar is quite small compared to some of the others, but it's glass and filled to the brim with what appears to be...what, black sand?

Thomas hops down from the table, feet carrying him over to the little jar. Murmuring voices stop, silence filling in the background. He lifts the jar off the countertop, frowning, eyes drifting over the sticker on the front. "What is this?" he asks aloud, turning. Scott, Deaton, and everyone else are watching him.

"Mountain Ash," Deaton answers, stepping over to take the jar away from him. Thomas hands it to him reluctantly. "And it is not something that should be messed with, especially around your friends."

"Are you always so shucking cryptic?" Thomas rumbles under his breath. Scott snorts a laugh from across the room.  _How did he hear me?_

 

Thomas swipes a hand over his tired face, sighing. The bright glare of his laptop is starting to burn his eyes and the little words are beginning to blur together. He turns around in his desk chair and blinks a few times, adjusting his vision. He squints at his alarm clock. The numbers  **3:17** seem to glare brightly at him from his tiny bedside table. He stands up and stretches out his arms, groaning quietly. He's only been sitting in the same position for about six hours.

"Shucking Google shucking sucks," he huffs to himself. He keeps getting sidetracked to different articles that look interesting and it's becoming an issue. His original plan to research 'Mountain Ash' and 'Alpha Pack' and 'Alphas' did not include " _62 Interesting Facts about Wolves_ ". But the website is still interesting, so Thomas left it, clicking open a new tab to research. He could read about wolves and their mating habits later.

Thomas sits back down in his chair, sighing once more. He opens yet another new tab (his laptop is going to crash soon if he keeps it up; it's already lagging terribly) and searches 'alpha pack'.

 **AlphaPack**  
https://alphapack.co/  
_**AlphaPack** builds core-banking solutions for financial institutions._  

Thomas groans, louder this time, and tempts slamming his head on his desk. This is not what he's looking for, not even close. He doesn't need help with finances, and he's sure that that isn't what his friends are talking about when they refer to 'the Alpha Pack'.

Huffing, Thomas decides one last try, then he goes to bed. Maybe.

His fingers fly across the keyboard, Googling 'alpha'. All that comes up are a bunch of pictures and websites about 'Alpha' being the first word of the Greek Alphabet. This is getting him nowhere.

Just for the sake of it, and because he's getting kind of pissed, Thomas angrily scrolls down to the bottom of the Google page, coming across the 'Searches related to alpha' recommendations.

alpha  **symbol**

alpha  **male**

alpha-

Wait. Thomas frowns, mouse hovering over the suggestion and clicking hesitantly. The first result is a definition, complete with an example sentence.

 **al.pha male**  
_noun_  
the dominant male animal in a particular group.  
"two of them trotted over to greet the alpha male, a black wolf with a graying muzzle"

 

But only one word stands out to Thomas.  _Wolf._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: The kitten in this part is based after my black and white terror named Castiel.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feels. That is all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "62 Interesting Facts about Wolves" is an actual website. I don't, like, own it or anything. So, this chapter is SUPER ANGSTY and REALLY long. Stuff is happening with Stiles/Thomas, weird stuff, and secrets are all (mostly) out in the open.
> 
> Also, some people were mentioning how Stiles is out of character for being "Thomas", and I'm super sorry about that, I hope it isn't too terrible. But, I tried to fix it slightly in this chapter, and the plot's starting to thicken, so it isn't really my priority.
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I don't own Teen Wolf or The Maze Runner. They belong to MTV/Jeff Davis and James Dashner.

Thomas's phone ringing has his eyes snapping away from the computer screen. He isn't really even tired anymore. He has the webpage " _62 Interesting Facts about Wolves_ " currently pulled up. He'd been skimming through them. They're quite interesting.

_"Stiles? You there?"_

"What? Yes, hello. Who is this?" Maybe he should have looked at the caller ID. But, hey, he's just starting to get used to using a cell phone again, okay?

_"It's Isaac. Look, I need to ask you something. It's important."_

"Has to be," Thomas agrees, "if you're calling me at four in the morning."

It goes quiet on the other end. Thomas frowns.

_"Um, Stiles? You do know that it's seven forty-five, right?"_

_What. What?_  Thomas's eyes snap up to the toolbar at the top of the screen. Sure enough, the time 7:47 AM is displayed.

"Shuck," he says under his breath. He's going to be exhausted the rest of the day. Right now must just be sort of the calm before the storm, because he's practically wide awake.

_"Did you sleep at all last night?"_

"Don't worry about it."  _No._ "What did you call me about?"

  _"...Don't take it offensively, because I'm totally not accusing you, I was just told to ask."_

"You're rambling," Thomas informs. "What is it?"

_"You know that jar of Mountain Ash you were messing with the other day?"_

"Yeah-huh."

_"Did you take it?"_

Thomas raises his eyebrows. "What, you mean like steal it? No, I didn't take it. Why? Is it missing?"

_"Yeah. Deaton and Scott are really worried, and Derek's pissed."_

"Oh. Well, I promise, I didn't touch it. Well, I mean, I  _did_ touch it, but I didn't take it."

_"Okay, I believe you. Um, I gotta go, we're in the middle of a p- uh, meeting. Talk to you later, Stiles."_

"Yeah, okay. Bye, Isaac." Thomas waits for the call to end, dropping his phone onto his desk with an agitated sigh. Why would someone steal a bunch of black dust from a tree? It must be important, if Scott and the vet are so worried.

Thomas cracks his knuckles, biting his lip at the itchiness it brings to his injured hand. He does his best to ignore it. He has work to do. Just before he opens a new tab to search 'mountain ash' (he apparently hadn't been thorough enough with his last search), one of the facts catches his eye.

**"In 1927, a French policeman was tried for the shooting of a boy he believed was a werewolf. That same year, the last wild wolves in France were killed."**

_A werewolf?_  Thomas scrolls back up, a flash of excitement hitting him.

**"Under certain conditions, wolves can hear as far as six miles away in the forest and ten miles on the open tundra."**

***

_"Are you always so shucking cryptic?" Thomas rumbles under his breath. Scott snorts a laugh from across the room._

***

Thomas gapes at his computer screen.  _No. No, there's no way..._

**"A wolf pack may contain just two or three animals, or it may be 10 times as large."**

_Scott, Allison, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Jackson, Lydia, Derek._

_Derek's growls, Scott's hearing, the talk about an Alpha Pack, Isaac's strange comments..._

***

_"We're not as human as you think. We're-"_

_"Isaac!"_

***

**_Oh._ **

***

_"Okay, not my business, whatever. By the way, why the hell did you tell Isaac that we can't-"_

_"...I agree with Isaac on this one. It's his right to know, Derek, and you're-"_

_"Scott, if you don't stop talking, I'm going to rip your throat out. With my teeth."_

***

**_My._ **

***

 _"_ Derek _is letting you borrow his car?"_

_"Yeah, well, I think he doesn't mind, as long as: one, I don't hurt it and two, it keeps you from overhearing his conversation with Isaac and Scott...."_

***

**_God._ **

"All my friends are werewolves," Thomas whispers to himself. A flare of pain slices through his head, and suddenly he feels sick to his stomach. He stumbles up from his chair, breathing shallow to keep from throwing up, and staggers out the door to the bathroom. The mirror's still broken. He catches a glimpse of his reflection. His nose is bleeding.

"My friends are werewolves. Okay. Yeah. Okay," he murmurs to himself, arm wrapping around his stomach. "Wait. No. Allison. S-she's human. A hunter. She hunts werewolves." The pain in his head increases tenfold, and he can hear his heart pounding in his ears. It hurts, fucking Christ, it hurts; but he's also _remembering_.

Thomas falls on the floor in front of the toilet, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat. Blood drips from his chin onto the white tiles below him. Talking out loud somehow seems to be helping his thought process, and he wants to remember as much as he can before he passes out or something. Saying it aloud seems to solidify it.

"A-and Lydia," he mumbles, voice shaking. "She isn't normal. Not human, but she isn't a werewolf." It's like the time he was shot in the shoulder. It's as though someone took those coils of pain, all of that agony, and shoved it into his head. Tears squeeze out of his eyes, track down his cheeks. There's so much more, so much more to remember, but it all  _hurt_ _s_.

White noise rings in Thomas's ears, and his eyes burn with tears. He feels like his head's about to explode.  _There's more, there's more. I have to remember.... Jackson. He's not a normal werewolf. He was something else. Before. Something that paralyzed people. He killed people. He killed people, didn't he? Someone, some kid, was controlling him. Matt._

"But Matt died," Thomas croaks to himself. "It was... Allison's grandfather. Gerard."

***

 _Stiles steps into the doorway of his bedroom, where his dad is just finishing up a phone call. He stands in the center of the room, posture screaming 'worried'. "_ _Oh, come on, Stiles. Where the hell are you?"_

_"Right here." His dad looks up, eyes darkening when he takes in Stiles's bruised face and split lip. He walks over, placing his hand on Stiles's neck and tilting his head to the side. "It's okay. Dad, it's okay."_

_"Who did it?"_

_"It's okay. It was just a couple kids from the other team. You know, they were really pissed about losing and I was... I was mouthing off, you know. The next thing I know-"_

_"Who was it?"_

_"Dad, I don't know. I didn't even see them really."_

***

Thomas chokes out a pained breath, lying down on the floor and resting his forehead against the cool tiles. Beads of blood drip down his nose onto the floor. He curls his legs up to his chest in fetal position, raspy breaths escaping him. His closes his eyes, grimacing as another sharp stab of pain drills into his skull, hammering right behind his eyes.

***

_"Why am I wearing black? What are you, an idiot? I just came from a funeral. You know, people wear black at funerals!" Stiles freezes, shocked, as his father stumbles into the party. The kid he was talking to scowls and gets defensive._

_"Dude, chill. It was just-" Stiles's dad shoves him backwards, stumbling as he does so. The brown liquid sloshes around in the bottle he's holding in his right hand. The bottle is already two-thirds empty._

_"Get out of my face," his dad snaps, glaring. Then he sees his son. It goes quiet, and his dad holds the bottle out, gesturing to Stiles._

_"It's you. It's all you. You know, every day I saw her lying that hospital slowly dying, I thought: 'how the hell am I supposed to raise this stupid kid on my own? This hyperactive little bastard who keeps ruining my life?'_

_"It's all you. It's you,_ Stiles _." He sneers out his son's name in disgust. He raises a finger to point. "You killed your mother, you hear me? You killed her. And now you're killing me." His dad rears back, tightens his grip on the bottle, and hurls it at him. Stiles flinches and ducks behind a pillar, tears in his eyes._

***

He opens his eyes, but his vision is swimming, everything seeming too bright and blurring together. The room has a red tint to it.

 _My head hurts._ God _, my head hurts so freaking bad. I don't want to remember._

Something shatters on the tiles by the sink. Water splatters over his pant leg; shards of glass skitter towards him. His head hurts. He wishes he was tired; maybe then he'd pass out or something.

His head hurts.

* * *

Thomas sits up, wincing. His back and shoulders ache and his left arm's completely asleep, but that might be from lying on the bathroom floor for ten minutes without moving. He didn't fall asleep or faint at all. Just sort of laid there, semi-conscious, and stared at nothing. It's the sound of the door shutting downstairs that had snapped him out of it.

Quiet as possible, Thomas clumsily ascends to his feet, swaying. The room seems to spin if he moves to sharply. His nose  _had_ been bleeding pretty badly.... Maybe blood loss is just making him dizzy.

He catches his reflection in the mirror when he looks. His entire face is covered in still-wet blood. Starting from his eyes and tracking down his cheeks like tears, down his lips and chin, coming from his ears and following his jawline, leading to his chin.  _What the actual hell?_

Glass crunches beneath shoes, water sloshing. Thomas turns his head so fast he almost collapses from the vertigo.

"Stiles?" In all of his memory, his dad's voice has never sounded so worried, so concerned. His gaze doesn't meet Thomas's, eyes dark with emotion darting around his face.

"What? Do I have something on my face?" Thomas jokes weakly, faking a smile. His dad's eyes widen and he steps forward. Thomas notices that he's still dressed in his police uniform. He rests a hand on the side of Thomas's neck, using his thumb to turn his head. The déjà vu makes Thomas want to throw up.

_"Who did it? I want descriptions."_

"What happened, Stiles?" his dad asks. "Should I take you to the hospital?"

"I- uh, uh...no, no I think it's...fine. I'm okay," Thomas says. His dad's eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth to say something, but a head peeking in the doorway stops him. Thomas follows his gaze with slight surprise.  _When did everyone else get here?_

"Mr. Stilinski, what- Stiles, what the hell is wrong with your face!" Erica screeches. Thomas snorts, crinkling his nose up at the coppery taste that blooms in his mouth.

"Did anyone else come in?" he asks wearily. Erica hesitates, but nods.

"Yeah, everyone."  _Okay,_ great _answer._

"Then I only feel like explaining this once." Thomas takes a step forward, passing his dad, who follows him out of the bathroom. Thomas hears him shut the door behind them.

Erica wasn't kidding; everyone _is_ here. Allison and Lydia are lounging on his bed, debating lightly about something or other. Jackson is leaning against his window sill, hands in his jacket pockets, looking about as annoyed as usual. Boyd and Isaac are talking as well, though Boyd looks beyond exasperated and Isaac just looks smug. Scott is conversing (though it sounds more like hushed arguing) with Derek and someone Thomas doesn't recall seeing since his return. He's older than everyone else (including Derek and maybe even his dad), and he holds himself with an air of morale and he simply _oozes_ creepy. Thomas can't help but assume he's a werewolf too.

Erica is standing by the bathroom door, alone, attention already focused on Thomas and the Sheriff. Nobody else even looks up at him. Except, that is, Creeper Wolf. He looks away from Scott and Derek, and his grin towards Thomas is blinding and almost predatory. It makes Thomas uncomfortable, but he simply raises his eyebrows at the look. His dad steps forward, placing himself beside Thomas instead of behind him.

"Oh, hello Stiles," Creeper Wolf smirks. Derek glares, hands tightening into fists.

"Peter," he growls warningly.  _If werewolf packs work like actual wolf packs, Derek must be the alpha. But then who's this guy?_

"I can defend myself, Derek," Thomas snaps. His words capture the attention of Scott, Isaac, Boyd, Jackson, and Erica. Lydia and Allison look up, too.

"Stiles?" Lydia's voice comes out soft, almost frightened. He looks away from Peter the Creeper. The pack's attention is focused solely on him. Maybe it's because of the blood drying on his face. That would probably make sense.

"Before you ask, no, I-I can't really explain _this_." He gestures to his face. "All I know is that that  _thing_ happened again. You know, the other day, when I passed out because of some memory thing? Well, it happened again."

Thomas glances around at everyone. His dad looks confused for a moment, then realization flashes in his eyes, and he adopts a worried look ( _the others must've told him at some point_ ). Scott, Isaac, Lydia, Allison, and Erica all look concerned. Jackson doesn't seem to care, and it reminds Thomas so strongly of Gally, his body tenses. Boyd looks neutral, but curious. Derek's expression is wary, and Peter is still grinning that disturbing grin.

"What did you remember, Stiles?" Erica finally asks. "It had to have been something big, otherwise, you know, I don't think you would have been bleeding out of your nose, ears,  _and_ eyes. Do you think, maybe, we should get you to a hospital and make sure you aren't dying or something?"

Thomas shakes his head, biting back a rude comment and glancing at his computer. The screen has gone black, into sleep mode. "Hey, Isaac, didn't you call me, like..." Thomas leans over to peer at his alarm clock, "a little over ten minutes ago? Kinda weird, you all getting here so fast. I mean, assuming you were at Derek's place (which I  _clearly_ remember is about fifteen minutes away by car), you would have had to seriously speed to get here so soon."

"What are you implying?" Derek snaps. Peter's smirk widens until he's practically beaming.

"Oh, I'm not implying anything," Thomas says coolly, hands sliding into his pockets. He tilts his head slightly. "But hey, interesting fact, did you guys know that a wolf can run about twenty miles per hour? Forty, when they're sprinting."

Thomas presses his lips together, walking over to his desk chair and sitting down, rotating the 180 degrees to face everyone. Everyone looks vaguely troubled, aside from Derek and Peter. Derek looks downright  _furious_. Peter looks like he's about to either pounce on Thomas or start making fun of Derek.

"Isaac told me you didn't sleep at all last night," Scott comments quietly. "Were you researching?"

Thomas can't help but smile a little bit. "Yup," he says, popping the 'p'. "After all, it's what I do best, isn't it? By the way, the Alpha Pack probably left because they either found a stronger alpha elsewhere or they're planning to come back," he shrugs. "I didn't even look that up; it's just common sense."

And then Thomas is being manhandled into the wall. His back collides rather painfully, head snapping back against the wall with a solid _thud_. He sucks in a sharp breath of pain, gritting his teeth and mentally cursing Derek in creatively combined swear words that he'll have to write down for later use or something.

"Watch it, Hale!" his dad snaps, though he doesn't really make a move to help, just remains standing, posture tense and rigid.

"Get off," Thomas half growls under his breath.

"Don't act like such a child," Derek snarks brusquely. "You might think you know everything now, but you don't have the slightest  _idea_ what's going on. You're a Stilinski; act like it."

It's the most Thomas can recall Derek saying at once. Still, he has a certain bone to pick with the alpha. "Okay, answer me this,  _Derek_ ," he spits. "Why didn't you tell me? You  _had_ to know I'd figure out eventually. Why didn't you tell me? In fact, why'd you tell your little puppies that they couldn't say anything, either? Why were you so shuckingadamant on keeping this away from me? Why didn't you just suck it up, and-"

Derek bares his teeth and his eyes bleed red, and it's both impressive and intimidating. Thomas grumbles under his breath and bites his tongue to keep from talking.

"If you are quite done trying to impress Mr. Stilinski, nephew," Peter says lightly. A growl rumbles in the alpha's throat, but his eyes fade back to their natural color. He doesn't move away, though.

"It was a safety precaution," Derek growls, eyes closing for a moment. He looks like he's trying to force himself to calm down. "If the Alpha Pack knew we had a human with us-"

"Allison's human," Thomas cuts in. His eyes narrow. "Oh, but I know what you're going to say. 'She's a hunter'. Yeah, okay, I get it. I'm just "defenseless Stiles" that's getting in the way of everything. But did you think, even for a second, that instead of pushing me out of the 'pack' or whatever this is, I could help?"

"How?" Derek demands. "How could you _possibly_ help? Not only are you human, Stiles, you've been gone for three months and you're memory has been completely wiped. So tell me," he almost sneers, "how can you help?"

"I know..." Thomas takes a deep breath. "I know that I've been gone for a while. But, I can defend myself. If my time with WICKED taught me anything, it's that you do whatever you  _freaking can_ to keep your friends safe," he says passionately. "And yeah, okay, I've messed up, I get that. I've made some mistakes, but that-that isn't just a  _human_ thing.  _Everyone_ does it, okay? Me, you, Scott, Erica, Isaac, all of us! Okay, and you might not think I can help, but I know how to defend myself, I can handle weapons, I've done it before. I don't _care_ if it might have been some stupid simulation or something; I've killed more people than you would probably like to think, Derek."

It falls quiet after Thomas's little rant. Scott is the first one to speak up.

"Stiles, you.... You don't know what _we_ went through. Yeah, you were gone, and I-I feel bad for you, but... all of us,  _here_. We all suffered just as much as you. It's been rough on all of us, man, I don't think you know how much. I mean, w-we spent days without sleep to go out looking for you."  _Is he playing the guilt card? Is that what this is?_

"You have  _no_ idea what any of that was like, Scott," he bites accusingly, expression hardening.

"It couldn't have been as bad as you're making it sound," Jackson huffs from his spot by the window. "I mean,  _I_ for one would have probably preferred being in your place rather than here."

Something bubbles up in his chest. He doesn't know what it is, exactly, but he's starting to struggle to take even breaths, and Derek still being all up in his personal space isn't really helping. 

"Scott went through a lot when you disappeared, Stiles," Allison agrees. "He thought he lost one of his best friends." And that's it; that's the straw that breaks the camel's back.

"I  _did_ lose one of my best friends," he says through gritted teeth. "He askedme to do it, Scott. He gave me a note. He gave me a note, and you know what it said? You know what it said, Scott? It said: 'Kill me. If you've ever been my friend, kill me'. And you know what, Scott? I  _did_."

Thomas walls up his emotions and continues, voice almost calm. "So _you_ tell  _me_ , Scott. Who had it worse?"

The room goes quiet again. Because Thomas didn't tell them this. His dad looks like he wants to just shove everyone out of the room and shoot whoever's upsetting his kid (even though it's _so_ much more than that). Scott looks so guilt-ridden he looks like he's about to be sick, and even Jackson has the consideration to look guilty.

"....What happened, Stiles?" Lydia asks softly. "Tell us what happened." It isn't a demand or an order. It's a suggestion. Like it'll all be okay in the end, if he talks about it.

Derek finally seems to realize that he's still uncomfortably close to Thomas, and he backs off, stepping over to stand next to Peter. Thomas slides down the wall to sit on the floor, sitting where everyone can see him but no one is next to him. He's faintly glad that he told his dad the story (albeit a bit more vague) of his time with WICKED already, even if it hadn't been very detailed and it was right before he went to bed (or _tried_ ).

"He was a Crank," Thomas begins. Tears well in his eyes, and he presses the heels of his hands against his eyelids as if it'll keep him from breaking down. He draws his hands into his lap and continues, masking everything behind a wall. "I told you guys how some of us weren't Immune. Newt, well, he was one of them. We broke out of WICKED a few days later, but while we were still getting out, he dragged me out into the hall, away from everyone else, and he gave me a little envelope. It was sealed, blank on the outside. And he made me promise, made me swear not to open it, until the time was right.

"So, we broke out, and went to Denver. It was supposed to be a safe place, Immunes only. Which meant Newt couldn't go in. He was fine with waiting outside in the Berg, but when we got back, he was gone. All that was there was a note. I don't remember exactly what it said but...they got in. Guards. Took him to the Crank Palace, just outside of Denver, to live with the other Cranks. I remember he wrote, 'Thanks for being my friends'.

"Minho didn't take it very well. He told us we were going to go and get Newt out, and I agreed with him. Newt.... The average person takes...a _while_ , to succumb to the Flare. With all of the stress, Newt...well, it affected him a lot faster. So we were worried. And we got to the Palace, bribed two  guards into showing us where Newt was..." Thomas clears his throat and continues, avoiding eye contact in favor of staring at the carpet.

"Found him in the bowling alley. He'd stolen a Launcher from one of the guards, I-I don't know how. He was mad," THomas's voice goes strangely hollow. "He was mad, started yelling at Minho because he didn't...want his friends to watch him spiral into madness, didn't want to hurt us. Then he turned on me, and..." His voice wavers and he pauses, closing his eyes briefly to keep his facade from cracking. "Said the sight of me made him sick. He told us to say goodbye, remember him from the good old days.

"But Minho wasn't having it. So, Newt got pissed and the other Cranks jumped to his defense and...so, we left. We left, and we got back on the Berg and I finally remembered the  _stupid shucking note_. He just...didn't want to become a Crank. Wanted me to kill him, so that he...so that  _we_ didn't have to go through that.

"We met up with some people from the Right Arm, the resistance group, and they told us about how the Cranks took over the city. We wanted to talk to the leader of the Right Arm, find out why they were kidnapping Immunes." If the pack is confused as to why Thomas is telling them this part, they don't show it. "Turns out, the plan was to mimic WICKED, to get inside their headquarters. There was a plan, to use the Immunes to get permission to enter, then to plant a device. A device that powered down all the weapons WICKED guards and soldiers had. But, the device had to be planted in the building, which was where I came in.

"Because I'm- I  _was_ the Final Candidate, to find the cure or whatever, it would be best for me to go in. They'd welcome me back with open arms. So, the plan was for us to drive to the abandoned hangar, where the Bergs were, and go from there. It was just me, the pilot, and the driver, Lawrence. The drive meant going through the city again, which was filled with Cranks. We, uh, drove, for a while, and he was just standing there, on the side of the road. None of the other Cranks were really near him, and.... God, he looked horrible, but, it was Newt.

"So, I made Lawrence stop the van, and I got out, and we talked. He seemed fine, actually. Said that the insanity sort of comes and goes, that he couldn't explain it. That he was with the other Cranks because he didn't stand a chance being alone. So I told him to come with me. And he called me a traitor. Said he hated me. And he just kept... _yelling_ and saying everything was my fault, and.... He wasn't himself, anymore.

"He tackled me, pinned me to the ground. So I started reaching for the pistol, which I had hidden in my pocket; for defense, y'know? And he told me, he asked...if I knew how he got his limp. He'd always had it, since I first met him. I told him I didn't...so he told me." Thomas fights to keep his voice even. It's a lost cause.

"He tried.... He tried to kill himself in the Maze. Climbed up one of the walls and jumped." A quiet gasp from one of the girls (he can't tell who) is the only response he gets. He doesn't look up from the floor; he can't. "He grabbed my hand holding the gun, and he forced it so that it was pressed against his forehead, and...he kept telling me to do it, to make amends for what I did. To put him out of his misery. Then, his eyes just cleared, like he was sane again, and he _begged_  me to do it. So, I shot him. I _shot_...one of my best friends."

Thomas feels his throat start to close up, placing his hands over his face as the first of many tears begin to escape.

"Oh, kid," his dad shakes his head, walking over and dropping down to wrap Thomas in a fierce hug. Thomas just slumps against him, pressing his face into his dad uniform (he hopes the blood on his face won't stain it). He sobs so hard his whole body shakes, the sound muffled in his dad's shoulder.

"I killed him. I killed him, dad," he says through thick tears. "I killed him, just like I killed mom." He feels his father's entire body tense up, and a wave of guilt hits him. He doesn't even get a word out before his dad his wrenching him away, cupping his face and forcing their eyes to meet. His dad's expression is sad, but determined.

"Now you listen to me, Stiles. You _did not_ kill you mother. Okay, so don't even _think_ that. That _was_   _not_ your fault." And then he's pulling him back into an embrace. Thomas hears a whine come from somewhere near his left, and he turns, only to come face-to-face with a heart-broken looking Scott. The rest of the pack is surrounding them too, and suddenly they're pressing in, like a giant group hug. Thomas would find the tight space suffocating, if it wasn't so comforting.

His cries lessen to silent tears, body shaking, and his head throbs from crying so hard.

Thomas looks up through wet eyelashes; Derek's standing in the same spot as before, expression surprisingly empathetic, but not pitiful. His voice is quiet, but still audible. "It wasn't your fault, Stiles."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will have more plot, I promise. But hey, here's your Newtmas. And a bit of Sterek never goes amiss.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who stole the mountain ash? Why? And more importantly, what is the extent to Thomas's/Stiles's recently discovered abilities?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own The Maze Runner or Teen Wolf. These belong to James Dashner and Jeff Davis/MTV.
> 
> ALSO, IMPORTANT NEWS:  
> I now have a Twitter account dedicated to this AO3 account. Feel free to DM me or ask questions. In my opinion, it's easier than answer in the comments. My username is @AO3_PTP

Thomas wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, sniffling quietly. He stands up on shaky legs, and plops down in his desk chair, spinning slightly. With the pressing guilt of his secret lifted off his shoulders and the crying, he's tired but relieved. He gives a half-smile and accepts the plastic cup of water from his dad. "So," he begins as the pack gets comfortable in his room, "why are you guys here? Is it the thing Isaac called me about this morning? The, um...the mountain ash?"

Scott nods, and Thomas takes a sip of water. "Yeah. It's weird. It went missing at a very... _precise_ time. Between the time when Deaton let us into the back room and when we left. Which is why we were wondering if you took it, 'cause you were messing with it."

Thomas shakes his head, placing the cup beside his computer, checking carefully that it doesn't tilt and spill. "Well, I didn't take it. I already told Isaac that. But, I guess that's the issue, isn't it? If I didn't take it, who did?"

"Exactly," Derek rumbles.

Thomas hums in thought. "Is it possible that whoever took it, did it after Deaton led us out of the back room, but before he got back?" Scott and Isaac exchange looks. Scott hesitates.

"I mean, that's only about five seconds.  _If_ that. So, I really doubt it," Scott answers. "But, I-I guess it could be possible..."

"Hey, Stiles?"

"Yeah, dad?" Thomas calls. His dad pokes his head out of the bathroom doorway, both eyebrows raised. "I noticed it earlier, but I was more concerned about your face bleeding, to be honest, but, why is their broken glass and water all over the floor in here?"

"Oh, it fell off the sink and broke when I was remembering and all that. I didn't actually touch it."

"What, it just  _fell_?"

"I'm pretty sure," Thomas nods. Peter looks up suddenly, an interested expression on his face. He slides off of Thomas's bed, cocking his head slightly.

"I don't think it did," he hums thoughtfully. "Stiles, has Dr. Deaton ever referred to you as anything out of the ordinary? A light, or a spark, perhaps?"

When Thomas doesn't answer, because he doesn't know, Scott does. "Yeah," he says. "Last year, when he was supposed to put the Mountain Ash around the building to keep the kanima from escaping. He called Stiles a 'spark'. Why, what does it mean?" he asks eagerly. Peter's expression twists into something smug.

"I do believe our young Stiles here might be less human than you all think." All eyes swivel towards Thomas. His mouth falls open, and he huffs out a forced splutter of a laugh.

"Um,  _excuse me_? I think I would know if I wasn't human, wouldn't I?"

* * *

"Perhaps not. It is plausible that something that happened during your time missing triggered your spark; ignited it into a flame, so to speak," Deaton allows. He sounds almost pleased. "It makes sense, actually. The bleeding is likely a result of high stress and anxiety mixing with the abilities you don't know how to control. You're human, you just possess inhuman qualities. I believe before you went missing, you would likely have referred to them as 'superpowers'."

Thomas thinks about that. "What? So... what, I'm like, a superhero?"

"'The line between good and evil is permeable and almost anyone can be induced to cross it when pressured by situational forces'," Peter says furtively. Thomas turns around, eyebrows rising, to look at the older man. Peter smirks arrogantly from where he leans against the countertop.

"What are you saying, Peter?" Scott asks. Peter rolls his eyes.

"I'm _saying_ that, depending on the circumstances, Stiles could go either way. Hero, or villain."

Thomas glares at the older man, opening his mouth to shoot back a comment, but Isaac beats him to it. "Peter, do everyone a favor and shut up, please and thank you." He then turns to Deaton. "So, Doc, what do these 'powers' imply? I, personally, would like to know in advance if Stiles is going to start accidentally using his freaky telekinesis, especially if it's on us."

Deaton's expression is one of his usual impassiveness mingled with slight enthusiasm. "I cannot say specifically what your abilities will entail. But, considering you already are capable of telekinesis (albeit unintentionally), it can be assumed your powers will include, at the very least telekinesis and perhaps telepathy. Though I'm positive that isn't the extent of your abilities. However, unfortunate as it may be, we won't be able to know of any others until they make themselves known."

Except Thomas had stopped listening at 'telepathy'. He furrows his brow, hesitates.  _Teresa?_

He waits. The lack of a response doesn't surprise him in the least, and he tries to keep the disappointment from getting to him. "Okay. And, what exactly would telekinesis and telepathy include, ability-wise?" he asks with a slight sigh.

"As of now, I cannot answer your question in much depth. I'm certain, though that, with practice, these powers will become stronger. It depends on the effort you put into it. Think of your spark as a muscle; the more you work it, the more skilled you become at tasks you once found demanding." Thomas soaks up the information, nodding slowly.

"Okay," he says finally.

"That's sick!" Scott grins, slapping Thomas on the back. "You're, like, magic."

"That's precisely what he is," says Deaton seriously. "The movement of mountain ash and breaking a glass of water are just the tip of the iceberg of your abilities. It is crucial that you keep me informed if anything happens. It appears as though, at the moment, your powers are influenced greatly by strong emotion, so-" The vet's voice is overpowered by the voice of another. A voice Thomas is unable to put a name to.

_Thomas?_

* * *

 If Thomas doubles over in shock, well, it's perfectly understandable why. He rights himself and purposely ignores the looks he's receiving from the people in the room.

The response, despite the voice not sounding familiar whatsoever, gives him hope. Because, while he can't place it, he thinks, somehow, he's heard it before.

 _Hello?_ he thinks as hard as he can, throwing the words out there like he was told how to do.  _Who is this?_

"...Stiles?" Scott's concerned voice cuts through his concentration. Thomas's gaze locks onto Scott's, and he notes the fear in the wolf's eyes. Fear for Thomas. For Stiles.

"I-I don't..." Thomas hesitates. "The telepathy thing you mentioned," he says to Deaton. "I could do it, back in the Maze. There was this girl there, Teresa; she's the one I told you about, the girl that showed up in the Glade a few days after I did. She..."  _Thomas, is it really you?_

 _Yeah, but who is this?_ Silence.  _Hello_ _?_ Shucking fantastic.

"What are you talking about?" Scott asks curiously. Thomas huffs an agitated sigh.

"We had this, this link. This telepathic link or whatever when we were in the Glade. She came into the Glade in a coma, but she talked to me. Y'know, in my mind or whatever. And Aris, this boy in Group B, could do it too. It... Deaton mentioned telepathy, so I tried talking to her like we used to, even though...even though I saw her die, just before I got out." Thomas does his best to ignore the pitying looks sent by the group. He shakes his head.

"She didn't answer me," he says, voice wavering slightly. "But someone else, some girl, _did_. But I- the voice sounds... I don't know, I  _recognize_ it. Almost like...."  _Rachel. Remember me? From the Maze Trials? Me, Teresa, Aris, and you were all the four main candidates._

Oh yes, Thomas remembers her, all right. She was the equivalent of him, but for Group B. And, according to Aris, she died. _You're alive?_ he thinks in semi-shock.

"....Uh, Stiles? Dude?" Scott coughs. Thomas shakes his head, ignoring him, and concentrates.

_I hope so, considering we're talking right now._

Thomas can _hear_ the humor in her voice.  _Uh, yeah, well, Aris said you died. Right in front of him_ , he replies. 

 _Oh, I did. I think. But hey, I'm alive now, aren't I? Right now, I'm trying not to think about it too much._  She goes silent for a few moments, then continues with, _Where_ are _you, Tom?_

_Beacon Hills, California. You?_

_Fresno, California._

_Oh._ Thomas furrows his brow and thinks for a moment.  _Wait, I don't think that's actually too far from here._ _Is there any possible way for you to get here? Sooner would be preferable._

 _Um, not really? Unless I drive, but..._ She goes quiet, and Thomas thinks he knows why.

 _Don't remember how?_ he guesses.

 _...I mean, Aris and I were both younger than you and Teresa in the first place, so I don't know if I ever knew_ how _in the first place._

 _Is there somewhere you're staying right now?_ he asks.

 _...Well, I mean, does a run-down, abandoned coffee shop count?_ For Thomas, that settles things.

"Hey, how far's Fresno from here?" he asks aloud. The question is posed to anyone and everyone in the room. There's a pregnant pause, when Lydia finally answers.

"Driving, the shortest route is about four hours, not factoring in any stops or breaks on the way," she says, pointedly ignoring the baffled looks she gets from Scott, Isaac, and Jackson, and the impressed ones from Erica and Allison. "Why do you want to know?"

"That girl who answered me, her name's Rachel and she's in Fresno right now, with no way of getting here. But she's my friend, so..." Thomas isn't entirely sure why he refers to Rachel as a 'friend', but he doesn't backtrack. "So, who's willing to do some chauffeuring?"

 

It's Derek that gets pushed into doing it. Only because of Jackson and Lydia's stubbornness (it's clear that Jackson doesn't even _believe_ the telepathy thing and just thinks Thomas is crazy) and the fact that Scott, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd don't have vehicles. Allison says she could ask her dad to borrow one of their SUVs, but she thinks he's extremely likely to say no. Which means Thomas and hostile, brooding Derek crammed in a car together for four hours there, and then four hours _back_.

Thomas doesn't object, simply because he has no other way of getting to his destination. Four hours there and then back. Not that Thomas expects Derek to stop on the way, except maybe for gas. So, overall, that's about an eight-hour drive, give or take. Which means, if they leave now, they'll be getting back at around dinner time, if a bit after. Which also means Thomas will be stuck in a car pretty much the entire day.

"We should get going," Thomas says. "We'll be back in time for dinner, hopefully, and according to Erica, school starts again tomorrow, so-"

A growl rumbles low in Derek's throat, but Thomas hears it and scoffs. "You're a moody little wolf, aren't you?"

"School _does_ start back up tomorrow. But, just so you know, when you get back, you aren't eating anything until we do something about that hair," Lydia announces. Thomas opens his mouth to complain, but Scott clamping his hand on his shoulder stops him short. He turns to look, but Scott merely shakes his head.

"Don't argue with her, it won't get you anywhere," he advises. He leans in towards Thomas's ear to whisper, "The more you cooperate, the sooner it'll be done." Scott leans back away, out of Thomas's personal space, and shrugs. "Oh, and I'll let your dad know where you are. Tell this Rachel chick I said 'hi'."

"Are we going, then?" Derek huffs. Thomas rolls his eyes at Scott, mouths the words "so needy" and turns back to face Derek, nodding. Scott snorts a laugh behind him, and Thomas can't help but crack a smile.

"Lead the way, Wolf Man."

* * *

 Thomas sighs, tapping his fingers on his thigh. The silence could be comfortable, if not for the tension curling Derek's shoulders. His agitation just makes the quietness awkward. Derek never turned the radio on or put in a CD or anything, so the only noise besides the occasional car going by is that of the near-silent whoosh of cold air blowing through the vents. But besides that, there's nothing. Unless you count the rumbling of Thomas's stomach every so often. With a jolt of slight surprise, he realizes that he cannot recall off the top of his mind the last time he'd eaten anything. _That's probably not very healthy_ , his mind supplies ever-so helpfully. And thinking about it just intensifies how hungry he is.

For a brief moment, he contemplates saying something to Derek, to get his mind off it, but one glance over at the werewolf has his mind made up. From what Thomas has seen over the past few days, Derek always has that expression of sourness on his face, except instead of his usual unfriendly look, he appears angrier than normal. Like,  _really_ angry. Like, as angry as Minho was when that Crank shot Thomas in the shoulder, back in the Scorch.

Thomas's train of thought halts abruptly. Minho. The quirky Runner had gone through the Flat Trans, Thomas is sure of it. But then, so did Brenda. And Thomas has no clue as to where they could be now. Is it possible that they showed up where the previously lived like Thomas had? It's the most plausible theory Thomas can think of... But truthfully, it's the  _only_ theory he can think of.

 But, then, why did Rachel show up in California? Was that where she lived before? It sounds right, but it's odd that both he and Rachel lived in California, and not really even that far from each other. A coincidence? Unlikely. Thomas resolutely pushes the thoughts away; it isn't like he can answer his questions, so there's no reason to dwell on them at the moment. Though, it isn't like he has much else to do. Maybe he could convince Derek to turn on the radio? Or perhaps it'd be smarter to just turn it on himself?

 _Worth a shot_ , Thomas supposes. Sparing a fleeting glance at the sullen werewolf, Thomas reaches forward to press the largest button on the console, clearly the one that turns the radio on. Before his finger can reach it, Derek is smacking his hand away. Not a painful smack, per se, just enough to keep Thomas from pressing the button.

"Come on, Derek," Thomas says in exasperation. "There's nothing to do, I'm bored as hell, hungry, and this is my only means of entertainment besides bothering you, and I  _know_ you definitely don't want that." Without permission, Thomas leans forward to push the knob. This time, though, Derek doesn't stop him. "Thank you," Thomas huffs, pushing down on the button.

The audio in the vehicle comes clearly through the speakers, with only a minimal amount of static. The radio station isn't on a song, rather, it's playing a commercial about something. Thomas doesn't bother listening to what it's talking about before switching the station. Once again, instead of music, it's someone talking. Thomas moves to change the station once more, but a certain word catches his attention, and he yanks his hand away from the radio as if it has burned him, eyes widening.

 _"-back to the main story of the week, it has been confirmed that the WICKED facility had been kidnapping teenagers, erasing their memories, and then_ forcing _these teenagers through horrible and inhumane tasks. Though most of these kids have gotten back to their homes safely, there are still fifteen reported missing. The lead scientist of the group, Ava_ _Elizabeth Paige, has admitted to her crimes. This is what she said in Friday's report:"_

Thomas stares at the radio, mesmerized, at the sound of shuffling, then a static-y sound clip that comes on. The hairs on his arms stand on end, and his heart pounds fiercely. He'd recognize that voice anywhere. Despite the sudden emotion threatening to overcome him, Thomas cranks up the volume.

 _"Our facility was created to protect children from the future. Perhaps you've heard of the_ 'Resilience Project' _. I and many other of my fellow scientists were a part of this project. The original study was among solely adults. 500,000 of them, to be exact. And of them, only thirteen were diagnosed with genetic immunity. It was A.D. Janson's idea to test on children, teenagers specifically. I agreed with the idea; the newer generation seemed more likely to be impacted by the immunization._

_"It is true that I took the lead in our new project, one we titled 'WICKED', and, out of the intercepted medical records of merely fifty teenagers in California, we were pleased to find four of which that were immune to the genetic disease that should plague them. We required a control group for our project, so we simply used the other adolescents from our project, along with some other from nearby states. These four became our main candidates; for these four, we implanted false names into their minds, though the control group of teens were left with their own. We then placed memory blocks in all of their minds. The Trials these subjects went through were just simulation; we wanted to test their brain activity in response to the tasks. Perhaps we took the project too far. It was too late when I realized this, and A.D. Janson had already fallen to aggressive dementia, trying to harm our subjects, and so I released them. From what I have been told, their current locations are classified."_

The main radio host comes back on to state that Janson's location is currently unknown, and he describes his features, then continues to say that anyone who sees him should contact the police immediately.

The radio host pauses; then, in his too-jovial voice, he says, "And now for the weekly forecast." Thomas promptly turns the radio back off, inhaling deeply and falling back into his seat with a dull thump. He stares blankly at the fraying in the left knee of his jeans, unable to conjure up even a simple thought. After what seems like just seconds of this, black splotches appear in his vision, and a pressure seems to be building in his head.

The noise of squeaking leather sounds faintly from his left, and Derek's hands are forcing his head to turn, to meet his eyes, and he's saying something, something, but it's just a numb buzz in the back of his skull as he becomes more and more light-headed. And when had they stopped on the side of the road? Derek's expression visibly changes and he seems to take on a different approach.

"—as! Thomas! You need to _breathe_." The breath sitting in his lungs comes out of his mouth in a loud  _whoosh_ , and he sucks in another breath, a weak cough on the end of it. Derek claps him on the shoulder a bit roughly as Thomas regains the ability to breathe, and his thoughts finally come  _crashing_ in.

"Oh my God." His voice is oddly calm. He ponders over the radio newscast, and slowly, his expression turns to one of horror. "Oh. My.  _God_." And Derek must be able to sense it, or maybe hear his jackhammer heartbeat because he does something Thomas would never have expected: he leans over the center console, seatbelt pulled tautly, and wraps his heavily-muscled arms around him in an, albeit, kind of awkward, hug. Thomas leans into the embrace nevertheless.

"You're okay; we'll get through it," Derek says, chin hooked over Thomas's shoulder. Derek's promise and comfort from the hug are quick to calm his shaking hands and racing heart, and he only slightly regrets when the alpha pulls away. His expression isn't one of pity or even concern; instead, it's of understanding. Such  _strong_ understanding, that Thomas is somewhat surprised by it.

"You don't have to say anything." Derek poses his words as a subtle question, a _but you can talk about it if you want to_. Thomas simply nods and turns to look out the window to his right. Derek drops the subject, for which Thomas is grateful, puts the car back in drive, and pulls back out onto the road, continuing on as if Thomas's mild shutdown hadn't even happened.

Thomas just thinks about the report.  _Janson is missing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...
> 
> I'm actually not that satisfied with how this chapter turned out but...meh.
> 
> Just in case you didn't see it in my first note, I now have a Twitter account for my AO3 account. Go ahead and shoot me a DM me or ask questions. Trust me when I say, I'll make time to answer you. My username is @AO3_PTP
> 
> If you'd like, you can Google the Resilience Project. It's actually really freaking cool, in my opinion.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas has some questions for Derek, they pick up Rachel, and Thomas gets a hairdo and some advice from Lydia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm back. No, I am not dead. Yes, I'm sorry for taking five years to freaking update.
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own The Maze Runner or Teen Wolf. These belong to James Dashner and Jeff Davis/MTV.

"...Hey, Derek?" The alpha in question grunts in acknowledgement, not taking his eyes off the road. The pair have been in the car for about three and a half hours now. A fleeting glance at the watch clasped around his wrist alerts him that it's 1:23, and they'd stopped to eat an hour ago when Derek finally snapped at the consistent sound of Thomas's stomach rumbling.

Thomas twists his fingers together and sighs, deciding to just jump right to the point. "What's the Alpha Pack? I mean, context clues point to it being a pack of alphas, because _duh_ , but, I was just wondering, like, how come you guys are freaking out about it so much?"

Derek's head snaps over to him, eyebrows pulling down into a brief frown. Thomas is immediately drawn to the lack of anger showing. Replaced by the typical irritation is a display of open intrigue and curiosity, so obvious on his face that Thomas is momentarily taken aback by the sheer _intensity_ of the expression. Like he's attempting to read him with the blatant staring. Derek looks away first, turning back to the road to navigate through the traffic that's beginning to get denser as time passes.

"...The Alpha Pack is, in essence, what you said: a pack of alphas," he says finally. "Alphas are almost always found with a pack of betas. The number of betas doesn't seem to matter, except the werewolves will only qualify as a pack as long as there are more than two betas. If the alpha wishes, a human can be classified as a beta and integrated into the pack. Humans don't share the Pack Bond on the same level of intensity, but if the alpha chooses them to be part of the pack, it establishes that the bond will be there, however weak. Only when a beta dies or breaks off from the pack will the bond break.

"And while not as common as finding rogue omegas, sometimes you may stumble across the lone alpha. Alphas that travel alone are nearly always more dangerous, though. Usually if they're alone, it's because they're still looking for potential betas or got chased off by their last ones. That, or they prefer being alone. Which, despite the possibility of it, I've never heard of an alpha  _wanting_ to be alone; they're physically stronger and in more control if they have betas, and that reason alone keeps most alphas from branching off." Derek breathes deeply, sighs, and continues, flicking on his turn signal and directing the Camaro into the left turn lane.

"That's why the Alpha Pack is so unusual. It's never happened before, that Deaton or I know of, and it disrupts the natural order," Derek rumbles, his voice tinted with the beginnings of a growl as he neared the end of his sentence. A brief red flash of his eyes shows the fury pooling there. For a moment, Thomas, who's still processing the copious information, is perplexed by the sudden anger. Not just that, either, but the poorly-hidden anguish that seems to blend in the background of rage. Then it all clicks.

"You're worried." It isn't a question. Derek nods; a small jerk of his head up and back down.

"Then, they just left. After injuring and messing around with  _my_ pack to try and get me to go with them, they leave without a trace." A snarl escapes the confines of his throat, a sound of distress attempted to be covered with dry anger. " _It doesn't make sense._ "

Thomas worries his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment, thinking. "Well..." he begins slowly, "that could be _why_ they left. Y'know, to get you on edge. With the way they left, I'm pretty sure they plan on coming back. Now, if it's going to be with a  _new_ alpha in the pack, I have no idea."

Derek huffs an aggravated sigh. His voice is weary when he speaks. "I just wish I knew how to keep my pack safe."

Thomas, unsure how to respond to that, remains silent, and turns to look out the window at the scenery rushing past.

* * *

 Once they reach Fresno, Thomas finds himself directing Derek where to go, like some sort of odd, human GPS.

"Take a left here," he instructs, biting at his lower lip in thought. As Derek turns onto the cracked, nearly hidden road, Thomas glances over to see him smother a wince as the Camaro's front left tire dips into a rather bad pothole, jolting the car. As Derek begins to slow, Thomas averts his attention back to the buildings alongside the small road. Many of them are old and appear abandoned, ivy scaling up the sides of the brick in a way that, unbidden, reminds Thomas of the Maze.

He licks his lips and refocuses. Thomas frowns, eyebrows tugging downward, as they pass a ramshackle house,  a man seated on the front porch. His gaze locks unwaveringly on the car as they drive by, and Thomas breaks out of the uncomfortable staring contest with the man to continue his search for the right building.

"You're sure we're in the right place?" Derek asks gruffly. Thomas hums under his breath.

"She said it was the fourth turn in off Taylor Road. Which is here. We're looking for some run-down coffee shop on my side of the road," he confirms.

"You mean like that?"

Thomas tears his eyes away from the houses to looks towards the wolf behind the wheel. Derek gestures out the windshield to a squat little thing four or five buildings ahead. As they pull up, Thomas can just make out the name 'Debbie's Cafe'. He holds up a hand to Derek, and the car comes to a gentle stop.

 _Hey, Rachel?_ Thomas calls, furrowing his brow.

 _Yeah?_ Her response comes within seconds, taking Thomas by pleasant surprise.

_Are you at a place called 'Debbie's Cafe'?_

_Yes!_ Thomas grimaces at the piercing squeal.  _Is that you outside, in the black car?_

Thomas smiles.  _Yeah. Come on out, and we'll get goin'._

There's a moment or two where nothing happens. Derek shifts, leather jacket squeaking against the seat, and Thomas stares eagerly out the window, eyes scanning for movement within the store. The front door of the building flings open, and out steps a dark-haired, dirty, exhausted-looking girl. Thomas rolls down the window with a grin.

Their eyes meet, and the tiredness in Rachel's posture vanishes immediately, replaced by a wide, beaming smile. There's an undeniable skip to her step as she walks over. She stops a foot away from the Camaro, and her smile falls into something much more soft, but genuine all the same.

"I missed you, Thomas," she says. The pang of guilt Thomas feels is one he tries — and fails — to rid himself of. Because he doesn't remember her, not really; not anymore than he remembered Scott or Derek or Lydia or his dad. Misery churns in his gut.  _Why did WICKED choose me? Why me? Why_ us _? What did we ever do to deserve this?_

He makes sure to keep his inner monologue to himself, though, blocking Rachel out from his mind in a way that she clearly senses, based on the way her smile falters and hurt floods her eyes.

"You too," he says. His attempt at a smile suddenly feels weak, and he nods towards the back, relieved at the lack of eye contact and feeling even guiltier for it. "Hop in."

 

The drive back to Beacon Hills is nothing short of horridly awkward. By the time they get back to Thomas's house, his watch reading the time 6:38, his head is pounding, he feels sick to his stomach and hungry at the same time, and wants nothing more than to collapse into his bed. The Camaro hasn't even rolled to a full stop in the driveway before Thomas is unlatching his seatbelt and clambering out of the car, desperate to get away from the suffocatingly tense atmosphere and the Camaro itself. The relief at getting out of the stuffy car and breathing fresh air is almost overwhelming. His stomach settles considerably, the aching throb in his head diminishes to something much more manageable, and he can finally stretch his legs.

Thomas briefly entertains the idea that maybe he's carsick, and snorts. Because why not add that to the plate as well?

"…don't really think that- Oh, hey, you're back." Thomas turns towards the familiar, albeit somewhat surprised, voice of Isaac. The beta pivots on his foot and shouts into the house, "Guys, they're back!"

"Thanks for that, Isaac," Thomas says, his sarcasm lacking its usual bite. Isaac must hear this, for he turns back to him, cocking an eyebrow. His eyes drag over him, up and down, and he huffs quietly when he reaches Thomas's face.

"You look like shit," he says, a smile crooking his mouth. Thomas opens his mouth to snap out a reply, but after a closer look, he realizes Isaac's smile to be genuine; not particularly cruel or mocking. It's just a smile.

"Yeah, don't I know it," Thomas answers instead, a small grumble to his tone. Isaac snickers.

"Spending too much time with Derek will do that to you," he says with a nod in the direction of the alpha. "Honestly, I'm surprised you survived an eight hour car-ride with him. Anyone else, and he for sure would have bit our heads off for sure. What's your secret?"

"Scooby Snacks. Lots and lots of Scooby Snacks." For a moment, Thomas is bewildered by his own words, as he has no idea what he's referring to. But then all former knowledge of the children movies comes flooding back, almost dizzyingly fast. He blinks.

A none-too-gentle smack to the back of the head has Isaac howling with laughter, even as Derek walks up to the door. Thomas splutters, searching in vain for some sort of remark to redeem himself, and Derek glances back over his shoulder at him. Thomas pauses momentarily when he sees Derek's expression isn't angry or brooding; in fact, he's got this smirk on his face — basically Derek's equivalent to a shit-eating grin — that Thomas has never seen before. Derek turns back on his heel and moves past Isaac, still in stitches, and into the house.

Thomas turns his attention to the cackling beta and can't help a smile of his own. "Okay, okay, dude, it wasn't even that funny."

Isaac snorts, straightening up and biting his lip in a clear attempt to hold back further laughter. "You didn't see his face when you said that, man. My God, his  _face_." Isaac giggles hysterically for a moment before reigning himself in. "Sorry, sorry. It's just, Derek hasn't looked like  _that_ in months."

"Like what?" Thomas finds himself asking. Isaac sort of shrugs.

"I dunno how to describe it. It's this mix of fond and annoyed. To be honest, it makes him look constipated, but I've only ever seen him direct it at you."

Before Thomas can properly ask about  _that_ , there's the slam of a car door, and he abruptly remembers his reason for his and Derek's long drive. He turns to face the girl, who's looking curiously at Isaac.

"I'm assuming you want a shower?" Thomas asks, gaining her attention. Rachel gives a relieved smile and nods.

"Oh yeah, that'd be nice."

* * *

Introductions go swimmingly, the pack seems to accept Rachel easily enough, and soon the nine teenagers — plus Derek — are lounging around the Stilinski living room, watching some show on Netflix called  _Supernatural_. Scott put it on series one, episode one, claiming that it's an extremely good show. Thomas finds himself enthralled by the first episode, then the second, and then the third.

They're halfway through the fourth episode, titled  _Phantom Traveller_ , when Thomas excuses himself to the bathroom. He walks up the stairs to use the one down the hall from his room, because he would certainly ruin the happy mood by having to ask where the downstairs bathroom is in his own home. Thomas steps into the small room, shutting and locking the door behind him. He turns and sees the broken mirror above the sink. The entire right half of it is still intact, but there are small bits of missing shards on the left side, and there's a large crack splintering through the glass.

Thomas is reminded of his hand and looks down at it. He unwraps the loose gauze and flexes his fingers. His knuckles are scabbed over and bruised, but, unless he clenches his hand into too tight of a fist, it doesn't hurt at all. Thomas drops the gauze into the trash bin beside the sink and raises his head to look at his reflection. Tired expression, pale face (though, he reminds himself, his skin is naturally pale), bangs falling into his eyes. He sees a pimple just above his temple, near his left eyebrow, and snorts at the sight of it. It's so absurdly  _normal_. It's almost reassuring to think that, no matter what crazy shit is going on, he's still a semi-normal teenage boy with acne and bad taste in clothes.

He hears the muffled sound of the television downstairs, the sound of a plane engine failing and someone screaming, and decides he should probably go back and join everyone. Thomas unlocks the door and swings it open. The Glader jumps and yelps unattractively when he sees Lydia standing right outside the door, arms folded across her chest and an expectant look on her face. She rolls her eyes at him and huffs.

"Took you long enough," she says. Thomas blinks at her and shrugs slightly.

"Why? They send you to come get me?" Because while Thomas doesn't know where exactly it is, he knows there _is_ a bathroom downstairs, and if Lydia had to go, she could've gone to that one. Lydia just looks at him for a few seconds, expression thoughtful, before a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

"No, actually. I sent _myself_ to come get you," she answers.

"What for?" asks Thomas, cocking an eyebrow. For the first time since Thomas has gotten back to Beacon Hills, maybe even ever, he sees Lydia hesitate. Frowning, she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, then releases it. She purses her lips, then finally sighs.

"Tomorrow's our first day back. The first day of junior year. I'm generously giving you the opportunity to ask any questions you might have," Lydia says. Thomas contemplates the offer. The questions and worries swirling in the back of his mind for the past few days come forward, and he decides it certainly wouldn't hurt to get some straight answers, even if only about school.

"Right now?" he asks. Lydia nods. "Okay," Thomas agrees. "But I'd rather we talk in my room than standing in front of the bathroom."

Lydia hums in assent, spinning around and sauntering off to his bedroom without waiting for him. Thomas stares after her for a moment, then flips off the light switch to pad after her. He steps into his room, where Lydia is seated comfortably on his bed. She gestures for him to shut the door. Thomas does, and he moves to join her. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and he shifts to face his friend.

"Anything particular I should know first, or…?" Thomas says, intentionally allowing the sentence to peter off. Lydia smooths out her skirt and adjusts to cross her legs.

"You're super unpopular, but with your disappearance, that'll probably change, so be ready for people you don't recognize to walk up to you and ask you questions you can't answer."

"Well, uh…"

Lydia waves her hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it, I'm sure Scott will be overprotective enough to drag you away from all the attention."

Thomas nods slowly. "Anything else…?"

"You played lacrosse. Whether you try out again this year is up to you, of course, but Scott will be devastated if you don't," Lydia answers. She lifts a hand to examine her manicured nails. Deciding them to be satisfactory, she returns her attention to Thomas, lowering her hand into her lap. She tilts her head slightly. "You say you don't remember anything, right?"

"Yeah," Thomas sighs, his expression pinching mournfully before he pushed the wistful thoughts away. "Why?"

"Mr. Harris hates you," she says, pausing a beat before adding, "he's the chemistry teacher."

"Oh, okay…. Why does he hate me, exactly?"

Lydia shrugs. "I'm not sure. Probably something you did to annoy him as a first impression." She clears her throat and gives Thomas a wide smile, so convincing that Thomas almost misses the strained falseness of it. Almost. "Any other questions?" she asks.

Thomas pauses. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth and gnaws on it in momentary contemplation. Ever since he remembered the small bit of information about Jackson and Lydia that he had, he's been dying to ask.

"What are you?" he says bluntly. "I know you're not a human, but...didn't Peter bite you? And you didn't turn, or die, so you're not a werewolf either."

Lydia, though clearly taken aback by the question, answers without hesitation. "I'm immune to the Bite. I've been doing research on it, and the vet seems to come to the same consensus I have."

"Which is?"

Lydia smirks. "A Banshee."

"Oh." Thomas gapes for a moment, nodding.

"Anything else?" Lydia asks, expectant.

He hums, rolls his shoulders, and turns to smile brightly at Lydia, and says: "So, my hair's longer now than it was before. Would you care to help me make it look somewhat decent?"

Lydia's lips quirk into a grin, and there's a gleam to her eyes that makes Thomas so incredibly  _happy_.

 _At least I did_ something _right_ , he thinks, giving a small chuckle at Lydia's expression.

"Is that even a  _question_?" she huffs rhetorically, hopping off the bed. Thomas moves to get up as well, but Lydia shakes her head. "Stay here, I'll be right back."

She disappears out the door, and while Thomas considers the idea of following her, he just remains sitting, clasping his hands in his lap and jiggling his leg up and down. He doesn't have to wait for very long.

Within minutes, Lydia returns, leaving the door open as she strides into the room, brandishing some sort of bottle-like container and a hairbrush. She practically shoves the bottle in Thomas's face, and he grabs her wrist to pull it back, eyes scanning the words on the container. Thomas snorts.

"Hair gel? Really? What exactly do you plan on doing?" Lydia sits back down, scooting to the middle of the bed instead of perching on the edge like before, turning to face Thomas and motioning for him to do the same. She places the hair product and the brush beside her, using her hands instead to pull her heels off of her feet and drop them to the floor beside the bed. Thomas slides towards the middle of the bed as well, facing his friend with an expectant expression. She rolls her eyes.

"What do you think I plan on doing, Stiles?" she scoffs. "I'm going to style your hair into something that at least looks halfway passable."

"With just a brush and hair product?" he inquires. Lydia lifts the bottle and flips open the cap, squeezing some of the gel into her hand. She snaps the lid shut again and sets the container back down.

"Oh, please, honey," she says. "Normally I could do this with just water, but if you want your hair to  _stay_ like this, you'll have to train it." She gestures impatiently. "Well, lean down a little bit!"

The next half an hour passes with Thomas awkwardly hunched over and bent forward so Lydia can access his hair. By the time she announces she's done, his back is twinging as he straightens up. Lydia slides off of the bed and grabs his wrist, tugging him along with her as they walk back to the bathroom. Thomas grins at his reflection. Honestly, he looks entirely different. His hair is gelled upwards, away from his face. The style of it reminds him of Minho's hair, actually. He sort of loves it.

"Well?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows playfully and striking a stupid pose. Lydia shakes her head, but Thomas can see the smile on her lips.

"Of course it looks good, I did it," she says easily. She hums to herself, then reaches forward to fix what she must see as an errant stand of hair. She leans back, her smile more smug now. "There. If you want to do it like that tomorrow, take a shower first and style it upwards while it's still wet, and try blowdrying it up like that. You'll still have to put gel in, of course, but not as much. Plus, the sooner you can train your hair to stay up with no gel, the better."

"Awesome," Thomas praises. "Thanks Lydia."

"No problem, Stiles," she replies, voice softening from the usual sharp wittiness to something more tender. The stand in silence for a few minutes, both just staring at Thomas's reflection in the mirror. Then Lydia claps her hands together, breaking the peaceful moment.

"Let's show the others, then you can go back to watching that ridiculous show of yours," she says.

"Hey, I thought it was pretty good so far," he argues half-heartedly, following Lydia out of the bathroom and flipping off the light switch behind him. Thomas is still smiling when she leads him down the stairs and back into the living room, where the episode is clearly coming to an end, with Sam and Dean leaning against their car, talking about their dad and having a heart-to-heart moment.

All eyes turn to Thomas and Lydia when they reach the bottom of the stairs. Scott breaks out into a wide grin, and Thomas thinks for a moment it's going to get all sappy when Jackson snorts and says: "Yeah, yeah, his hair looks amazing. Now sit down Stilinski, so we can watch the next episode."

There comes scattered laughter from around the sitting room, and Thomas chuckles too, squeezing back into his spot on the couch in between Isaac and Erica, just as the television (Scott informed him previously that they're streaming the show through Netflix, whatever that is) begins to load the next episode of the show. The bowl of popcorn has been passed around the group and Erica shoves it into his lap for him to hold.

Thomas just smiles. Yes, he has school to worry about tomorrow, but at least he has his amazing friends to get him through it. Thomas sinks back into the sofa cushions. He isn't worried. Whatever life tries to throw at him now can't  _possibly_ be worse than what he's already gone through. And if it somehow is...

 _I've got six werewolves, excluding Peter, a badass human, a Banshee, the Sheriff, a creepy vet, and Rachel on my side_ , he thinks.  _So bring it on._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: While obviously Fresno is a place, the specific streets and buildings I've described are for the sake of the story because I was too lazy to actually research a real street and whatnot. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> Also, I would like to point out that I DO NOT SHIP STYDIA. The way they act together in this chapter is literally just friendship (kind of like Thomas and Minho's, you know?). I thought I'd specify just in case. They are JUST FRIENDS. Lydia's not the type of person to outwardly admit it, but she missed Stiles while he was gone, and this is her way of showing it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas goes for a run, attends his first day back at Beacon Hills High School, and encounters a familiar face at the police station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, here we go…. Hope you guys like cliffhangers. I was actually so nervous to post this. I wrote it in, like, two days. I'm so proud of myself.
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I don't own Teen Wolf or The Maze Runner. They belong to MTV/Jeff Davis and James Dashner.

Thomas opens his eyes. His room is plunged in darkness; the only source of light is coming from the alarm clock on his desk, giving the dark room a red glint, and the half-moon outside, casting a soft glow on his carpet through one of his opened windows. The air drifting inside is pleasantly cool in comparison to the still, overly-warm air in the room, and Thomas sits up. He pulls his blankets off of his body, relishing a small breeze that floats through the window. The fresh air does wonders to calm his pounding heart.

He doesn't even remember the dream. Not the details, anyway. Only darkness and suffocating terror, fierce enough to steal his breath away, leaving him unable to scream. Which he's thankful now, as he hears the faint, but still-there snores coming from two doors down from his own room.

He needs a drink.

Thomas swallows against his parched throat and, rather than creep to the bathroom to get a glass of water, he pads over to his laptop. He opens the device, pulling it out of sleep-mode, and notes the time and date in the top right corner.

August 18. 5:23 AM. Too early to actually start getting ready for school. Thomas glances at his bed.

That's not an option either. His mind is wired after his nightmare, and body is wide awake. His feet ache with the desire to run.

And what says he can't?

He dresses quickly, throwing on a random tee shirt with an unfamiliar logo that looks somewhat like a bat, a thin flannel, and a pair of jeans, followed quickly by his socks and shoes. As a last minute thought, he grabs his phone, tucking it into his pocket. 

The stuffy air of his bedroom fades into fresher, more breathable air as he climbs out his opened window, onto a small ledge of the roof. He moves as close to the edge as he can, then lowers himself down, gripping the side of the ledge. For a moment he hangs there, suspended in the air by his arms. Then he lets go. The drop is slightly further than he previously expected, and his stomach flips at the momentary feeling of weightlessness; the panic comes to a halt at the same time he does. His feet touch down on the ground much softer than they should have, making the landing gentle instead of jarring, but despite this, he stumbles forward, sudden dizziness taking hold of him.

It dissipates quickly and Thomas rights himself, turning to stare up at the ledge in thought. He sniffs, caught off-guard at the metallic taste that slides down his throat. He grimaces and raises a hand to his nose. When he pulls his fingers away, he can just make out the dark glint of blood on them.

_Did I just…._

Thomas resolutely leaves the thought there, wiping the blood away from his nose with the sleeve of his flannel. He turns away from the house and walks through the patch of grass that makes up the front yard, relaxing slightly when his feet hit the concrete of the sidewalk. The hard texture underfoot is almost the same as in the Maze, excluding the cracks and bits of stone scattered around, and the feeling is almost soothing in its familiarity.

The route back to the Preserve isn't difficult to remember, easy to comprehend. How quickly he tires is another matter altogether. While he could previously run for hours on end in the Maze, and did so on multiple life-threatening occasions, now he barely manages twenty minutes of even-paced jogging until a stitch forms in his side, forcing him to continue with a sharp pain jabbing him with every exhale, even as his body protests and tells him to slow down. Eventually he does, sighing miserably as he gives into his body's begging.

He used to be so much better than this. He tries blaming the warm summer air for how out of breath he is. It doesn't help.

His spirits lift minutely when he enters the woods. Though it's still dark, the sliver glow from the half-moon is just enough to make his surroundings visible. Thomas doesn't bother to stay on the main path, branching off into the Wildlife Preserve with little thought or care on the matter. It's not like he'll get lost. Despite not  _remembering_ the place, he  _knows_ it. Knows it like the back of his hand.

 _How often did I used to come out here, before?_ he wonders, listening attentively for any sounds that would be unnatural in the forest, a paranoid habit he formed back in the Glade after Ben attacked him. But all he hears in an owl hooting softly somewhere further into the woods and, if he listens  _really_ closely, the barking howls of coyotes, or maybe foxes, bantering back and forth. Overall, it's very relaxing, and Thomas ponders over the fact that maybe, just maybe, that's the reason he spent most of his free time in the Deadheads. Because, somewhere past the memory block, it reminded him of the Preserve.

Thomas is so immersed in his thoughts that he doesn't realize he's stepped into a clearing until he blinks and there are no longer trees in front of him, but a huge, blackened husk of a house. He stops to stare at the house, exhaling a somewhat shaky sigh at the nearly overwhelming feelings of nostalgia, of homesickness that he can do absolutely nothing about. For reasons unknown to him, he is overcome with memories of the Glade and his friends. Minho's sarcastic quips and cleverness. Teresa's determination and optimistic attitude. Chuck's immature pranks and contagious laugh. Newt's messy hair, his accent, his witty remarks and protectiveness, and his complete _trust_ in Thomas….

He's shocked to find his vision blurring, fogging over with unshed tears, and, hands locked in tremors, he staggers forward towards the house. The front door is intact, but it's wide open, so he walks in. He stands there, in front of a scorched and damaged staircase, fighting to rise above the tide of loneliness and remorse threatening to drown him.

Because this house? It's just like him. A shell of its former self, destroyed from the inside out. Visibly standing, yet falling apart on the outside, but on the inside, completely burnt out. Ruined. Broken. Nothing like how it was before. No longer serving a purpose it must have once done exceptionally; no longer useful.

Thomas blinks furiously against the tears welling in his eyes, even going as far as tilting his head up to the charred ceiling to keep them from falling as he struggles to pull himself together.

He stands there for an indeterminable amount of time. As the sun rises, any remnants and feelings of sadness and uselessness are gone, and he's left more confused and lost than ever. When he steps out of the barely-standing, burnt out husk of a house, the woods is silent, besides the rustling of leaves in the wind.

This time, he doesn't slow down when his body protests the too-quick pace he's set.

 

He's showered, dressed in clean clothes, hair styled, teeth brushed, and ready to leave for school by six thirty. Well, aside from eating breakfast. But Thomas has skipped meals plenty of times in the Glade. One now won't kill him.

His dad wakes up at seven. Thomas hears the alarm clock go off from where he is down on the living room sofa, but doesn't really acknowledge it as he tries, and fails, to figure out how to work some app on his phone called  _Snapchat_. Erica showed him how to use  _Twitter_ yesterday, and that one had been easy. But Thomas really doesn't understand this one. He doesn't recognize half the names listed as he scrolls through his "Chat" (and what's up with the weird faces and little images next to them? Didn't Erica call them emojis?). He swipes right, and jumps slightly when his own face is staring back at him. Face camera? No thank you. He swipes right again, and there's another list of unfamiliar names, under a section labelled as his "Story". Amongst them, he finds Scott's name and rushes to tap on it, looking intently as a picture shows up. It's from this morning. Scott has the blankets tugged up over his mouth and nose so that only his tired eyes and unkempt hair can be seen. The caption reads: ' _School today is going to suck. Pray for me_ ', followed by an emoticon of two hands pressed together in a typical prayer-type pose.

"Hey, kiddo. You're up early." The unexpected voice makes Thomas jolt in surprise, enough that he has to fumble to catch his phone before it hits the carpet. He scoops it up and presses his empty hand to his heart, staring at his father with wide eyes and a startled expression. His father just chuckles.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," he says, amusement clear in his voice. He shuffles into the kitchen, and Thomas regains his composure enough to slide off the couch and follow him.

"It's fine, I'm…just a little jumpy today, I guess," Thomas says with a small shrug. His dad nods slightly in understanding.

"Why were you up so late last night?" Thomas asks. Because indeed, the Sheriff had been up, in his study, until Thomas eventually fell asleep. His dad pauses, clearly not expecting the question. He clears his throat awkwardly.

"I was…. I was closing the 'Missing Persons' report, kid."

 _Oh._ "Oh…. Well, I'm glad…?" Thomas says, his voice lilting at the end as if questioning his own statement. Honestly, he's not sure how to respond to that.

But his dad nods, stepping towards the counter and pressing a button on a small machine. It rumbles to life, strange sounds coming from it as a dark liquid begins to fill up a seemingly detachable container in the bottom of the machine. When his dad turns, Thomas gives him a quizzical look, eyes moving from him, to the machine, to him again.

The Sheriff takes a moment to realize what Thomas is asking, but when he does, a look of grief flits over his face so quickly that, had Thomas not been paying close attention, he would have missed it entirely. As it is, the brief peek into his father's mind is like a punch to the gut.

_You miss him don't you? Your son never had to ask stuff like this; but your Stiles, the old Stiles, is gone._

"…Sorry," Thomas mumbles quietly, wincing at how subdued his voice sounds. He shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets to hide their light shaking. They seem to do that all the time now. He wonders if it's an effect of PTSD. He'll have to do some research when he has the time. Maybe after school or something.

"Sorry for what, Stiles? You have nothing to be sorry for," his dad says, voice equally gentle as it is firm, and Thomas grits his teeth together until they ache to keep from having yet another emotional crisis, to keep his fragile self from shattering completely.

"Hey, look at me." Thomas's eyes hesitantly rise to his dad's figure, but upon seeing the concern and confusion written on his face, Thomas looks away, swallowing past the lump in his throat and berating himself for not being able to have one normal conversation without falling apart.

"Stiles, wha—"

"I'm not him," he manages in a low rasp, ducking his head. The tremors in his hands move to the rest of his body, including his voice. "I-I'm not…I'm not him. I'm sorry, but I'm not."

A calloused hand lands on his shoulder, but instead of flinching away from it as he may have done a day or so prior, Thomas leans into the touch. Whether because of muscle-memory or instinct, it really doesn't matter.

"Hey," his father starts. "You might be different, changed in ways your old man can't comprehend, but you're still him. You're still Stiles, and you're still my son, and I don't care how messed up you seem to think you are, I still love you. You're here, and alive, and I would never ask for anything else."

Thomas's nod is barely perceptible, but it's there. He lifts his head to give the man who raised him — the man he barely remembers — a watery smile.

"Thanks, dad."

* * *

The police cruiser idles in the parking lot, and Thomas shifts the backpack on his shoulders. The pressure from the straps on the bag causes a phantom pain that makes his shoulder — where he got shot — ache, but the feeling is so faint that Thomas is pretty sure he's imagining it.

He hesitates, looking over at his father. They've been sitting in the cruiser for about five minutes now, just idling in the school's parking lot. It's still super early, so very few other students are there yet; something Thomas is immensely grateful for. Still, though, rather than everyday clothes, his dad is dressed in his police uniform. Clearly he has work today. Maybe even this morning. He could be running late to his job, as the freaking  _Sheriff_ , just to give Thomas the time he needs to prepare himself.

How's this supposed to work, anyways? If asked, Thomas couldn't tell you the president's name, let alone anything about past wars or anything historical. And science? According to Lydia, he took Chemistry last year. So what does that mean he's taking this year? Biology? Physics? Didn't Scott say something about him taking Biology his freshman year? Did that mean he'd be doing Physics this year?

And English classes. Sure, Thomas knows how to write and everything, but the format of a paper? Where a thesis statement goes? What a thesis statement  _is_?

At this point, the only thing Thomas isn't freaking over is math. Scott mentioned just yesterday that Thomas and Lydia, apparently, were the two smartest kids in their grade. That both of them would be taking Calculus this year instead of Pre-Calculus. But Thomas isn't worried; that stuff's easy. It's simple problem-solving, and there's always one set answer.

He doesn't need forgotten memories and facts to be able to do math.

"You all right, kid?" his dad asks. Thomas turns to him. He found that he can focus much better now that he's taken his prescribed Adderall, for his apparent ADHD that he knew nothing about.

"Yeah, yeah, I just…" Thomas frowns and glances out the window at a pair of students loitering on the front steps of the school. "…I'm nervous."

Because fighting Grievers and Cranks, he can do. Surviving the Trials and a post-apocalyptic world? Easy-peasy. Being a normal high-schooler?

He's absolutely clueless as to what to do.

 _I don't know how to be a freaking teenager_ , he thinks bitterly.

"Don't worry, you'll be fine," his dad says. His tone leaves little room for doubt on the matter, which boosts Thomas's confidence, if only slightly.

"You think so?" he asks, turning to frown hesitantly at the school building.

"I know so," the Sheriff answers easily. "If there's one thing you are, Stiles, it's a quick learner. Plus, I'm pretty sure Scott or someone else will be by your side at all hours of the day. You'll be fine, kid."

Thomas exhales slowly. He nods. "All right…. All right. Yeah, okay. I'm…I'm going, then."

"Have a good day, Stiles," his dad grins. Thomas's smile is small, but it's genuine through his nerves.

"You too," he says, grabbing the handle of the door and letting his hand linger for a moment before twisting it and pushing the car door open. He steps out of the vehicle, bids his father goodbye, and shuts the door, turning around to face the huge building (and task) in front of him. He takes a long, measured breath, and adjusts his backpack on his shoulder.

"You got this, Thomas," he mutters to himself, walking up to the steps of the school slowly. While the doors are open, and he could go inside, he opts instead to seat himself on the front steps and wait for at least one of his friends to show up. In the meantime, he wiggles his phone out of his pocket, turning it on to find that Scott (saved under the contact name 'Scotty') texted him a few minutes ago.

 

_From: Scotty (7:34 AM)_

_Hey, ur dad dropping u off?_

 

Thomas snorts at the text-speak. Why can't Scott just type out the word "you"? It's literally two extra characters. Rolling his eyes, Thomas taps the keyboard to reply.

 

_To: Scotty (7: 39 AM)_

_Yeah, he already did. I'm sitting on the front steps. When are you getting here?_

 

The reply is almost instantaneous.

 

_From: Scotty (7:39 AM)_

_shoot. i'll be there in a few. sorry i had to give Allison a ride_

 

_To: Scotty (7:40 AM)_

_It's fine, just try not to take too long? Other people are starting to show up_

 

_From: Scotty (7:41 AM)_

_i'll be there in like five minutes. just ignore them if theyre giving you weird looks_

 

Thomas sighs and types back a quick " _Will do_ " before clicking off his phone and lowering the device into his lap, raising his eyes to watch more and more vehicles pull into the parking lot. He finds himself looking for Derek's Camaro, as it's the only vehicle he could even  _hope_ to recognize, but there's no sign of it. Which makes sense, considering Derek's definitely no high school student, but doesn't he drive Erica, Boyd, and Isaac in? Thomas can't remember. He drops his head to look at his cell phone, flipping it over to analyze the protective case on it.

It takes Thomas approximately four seconds to feel that familiar prickling and burning sensation that someone is watching him. It's the same one he felt back in the Maze plenty of times, leaving him paranoid and uncomfortable and on edge. He feels the muscles in his legs tense, as if instinctual preparation to run, and he looks up.

His eyes land on the person staring at him immediately. He doesn't recognize the dark-haired boy in the green v-neck tee shirt. His skin is slightly darker than most of the students filtering into the school, but it looks more like a tanned, bronze color. Definitely not as dark as Alby or Boyd. Still, though Thomas tries to feel something other than blank unfamiliarity, that's all there it. But this boy, whoever he is, clearly recognizes Thomas.

"Stiles?" he says, looking equally jovial, shocked, and confused. A wide, yet somewhat perplexed, smile cuts across his face. "You…they found you? When?"

"I, uh.."  _Just answer the question, Thomas, you can do that much._ "…A few days ago."

The kid's jaw drops slightly. "How come no one was told about it?"

 _Oh-kay, that one's a bit harder to explain_ _…_ "I, I don't think my dad wanted to make a big deal of it, y'know, right towards the beginning of the school year. He, um, he closed the 'Missing Persons' report already."

The boy frowns, but seems to accept the answer. He works his jaw, as though he has something else to say, but doesn't really want to say it. Thomas just waits silently.

"Where…" The boy stops, frown deepening. "If you don't mind my asking, where were you? I mean, you don't have any injures, that I can see, and you clearly weren't in the hospital if you were only found a few days ago, so it…it couldn't have been too horrible, right?"

Green V-Neck — as Thomas dubs him — winces at his own choice of words, opening his mouth, perhaps to apologize, but Thomas cuts him off.

"It's a really long story," he says. "I would, uh, explain it, but you probably wouldn't believe me, not to mention, we don't really have time right now."  _And, you know, I have no idea who you shucking are._

"Oh, okay, yeah that's totally fine," Green V-Neck assures quickly. A small, incredibly awkward silence falls upon them. Green V-Neck shifts his bag on his shoulders. There's a long, white pole, leading up to a small net, strapped to the side of his bag. Thomas wonders briefly what it's for and why the sight of it makes him somewhat apprehensive.

"I'm glad you're back, Stiles," Green V-Neck says, breaking the silence. He offers a smile. "Beacon Hills isn't really Beacon Hills without you."

Green V-Neck moves up the steps and into the building before Thomas has the chance to even think out a reply to that. Something akin to sorrow sparks in his belly.  _"Beacon Hills isn't really Beacon Hills without you."_  

 _But I'm not the same person I was before all of this. I'm not the Stiles you know_ , he wants to argue, despite it being futile.  _Dad said something about me being a chatterbox before, but I'm really not now. Will people notice that? Will they even care?_

Arguing internally with himself, Thomas doesn't notice the moped pulling into the lot. He hears it, of course, but pays it no mind. A few minutes later, when someone lightly taps him on the shoulder, Thomas's entire body freezes with tension and his gaze snaps to the person. Scott. Thomas forces himself to relax.

"Woah man, you okay?" Scott asks. Thomas notices a long, white pole with a net at the end attached to his bag, almost exactly like Green V-Neck's, except the net is smaller. He resolves to ask about it later.

"Fine, I'm fine," Thomas answers dismissively. Scott and Allison trade looks, but Thomas ignores it. "Look, can we just go? I'm ready to get the day over with."

* * *

When school is released, at the shrill ring of a bell that has Thomas wincing at the sound, he almost gets trampled as students practically sprint to the front doors. He very quickly loses sight of Erica, and Scott, and Isaac, and Danny, whom he'd had English with. Thomas just follows the pushing crowd out the main doors, then quickly moves to get out of their way.

 _High school students are shucking insane_ , he thinks distastefully.

The school day had gone by shockingly fast. Maybe because it was the first day of school and they had no actual work, or maybe because Thomas miserably resigned himself to his fate of being ogled at by everyone they walk by, including the teachers. He'd been optimistic that, because he was missing over the summer, it wouldn't be as big of a deal, but apparently being the Sheriff's son is enough for it to have gotten around.

Mr. Harris was the day's block in the road. True to Lydia's word, the teacher's dislike for him was obvious the second he and a small group of his friends that shared the class walked into the room. Once everyone was seated, Harris immediately broke into a speech that, yes, Stiles was back, but no, that didn't mean he got special treatment, and he was still just a student, and would be treated like one. Thomas thinks it's his lack of talking back when baited that kept him from a detention. After class, he'd heard multiple groups of students whispering about that as well.

 _What happened to Stiles?_ They seemed to say.

_Why isn't he talking as much?_

_Where was he all summer?_

_Didn't you hear? There was some experiment going on and he was one of the kids they took._

_Yeah, some group called WICKED or something._

_He looks the same; why's he acting so different?_

_He didn't even fight with Mr. Harris. What happened to him?_

_What's wrong with Stiles?_

_What's wrong with Stiles?_

_What's wrong with Stiles?_

Thank god the day ended when it had. Thomas is about at his limit as far as tolerance to the looks and whispers goes. He just wants to curl up under his blankets and never come out. And to think he still has another week of this…. He bites his tongue to keep from screaming in despair at the thought. While the Trials had mental aspects to them, it was a lot of physical stuff, too. This? This is all mental, all emotional, and Thomas  _hates_  it.

The only upside of the day was lunch. Not necessarily because of the food, but because Thomas finally learned that the weird white poles Scott and Green V-Neck kid were carrying around are for lacrosse; that, and he learned the name of Green V-Neck kid. Danny. Apparently one of Jackson's best friends. It's shocking how nice Danny is in comparison.

His phone vibrating captures his attention, and he pulls his cell from his pocket to answer the call, this time looking at the caller ID. Dad.

"Hello?" Thomas says, almost shouting about the clamor of students.

 _"Hey_ , _yeah Stiles? Is there anyway you could get a ride here from school? From Scott or someone?_ _"_

"Here? Where's 'here'?" asks Thomas, gritting his teeth in frustration as a student rams into him from behind.

_"The police station."_

"Why?" Thomas questions, his voice unintentionally taking on the lilt of suspicion.

 _"There's a kid here they just brought in. Kicking, punching, hell, even tried biting Parrish. He's talking complete craziness_ _,"_ the Sheriff says, his voice tinny though the line.

"Okay, but why does that involve me?"

His dad's sigh through the phone is enough to be worrying.

_"Because he keeps talking about a group called WICKED."_

* * *

Surprisingly, it's Jackson that gives him a ride to the station. Thomas thinks it's because of the look Lydia had given him when Thomas asked, but right now he doesn't care. He leaves Jackson a breathlessly quick "thanks, you can go" before racing into the police station, leaving his backpack in the Porsche. The woman at the front desk looks surprised at his sudden entry, and even more so when Thomas walks straight over to her and demands to see the Sheriff.

"I'm sorry, he's in the middle of—"

"Hey, you're the Sheriff's kid, aren't you?" Thomas whips his head towards the voice. The man is clearly an officer himself, in uniform, but he's surprisingly young-looking. His name-tag says Deputy Parrish.

"Yeah. Stiles," Thomas says in affirmation, bouncing on the balls of his feet in impatience. The officer nods and turns towards the woman at the desk.

"Thanks, Tara, but I've got it from here. Sheriff Stilinski said his son was to be brought straight back."

With that, the Deputy returns his attention to Thomas and gestures for him to follow, disappearing back through the door he'd come out of. Thomas jogs after him.

It's only a few turns until they spot the Sheriff. He's standing outside a room with a large glass window.

 _One-way glass_ , Thomas's mind supplies from nowhere. Their footsteps get his father's attention and he turns. His expression visibly becomes relieved when he sees Thomas. He opens his mouth to speak, but a muffled shout comes from the room he's looking into. Thomas can't make out the words, but he runs over to his dad, turning to look in the window.

His heart leaps into his throat. His dad shouts when Thomas makes for the door, but he isn't listening. Thomas wrenches the door open.

"—just another Variable! The shuck did you do with Thomas? And where are the others?"

Thomas's strangled gasp, followed by the door clicking shut, gets the interrogating officer's attention, as well as the boy's.

"Thomas?" the boy says, jaw dropping in clear disbelief. Thomas's voice trembles.

"Minho."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry guys, my cat, Castiel, sat on my lap and supervised the writing of most of this chapter, so it should turn out decent enough. Key word being "should", but oh well. Also, Ethan and Aiden aren't at the school because the Alpha Pack is currently out of town, that's why they don't make an appearance here.
> 
> And also, I know nothing about 'Missing Persons' reports, so if any of this information doesn't make sense or sounds wrong, please please tell me so I can fix it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Minho attend a pack meeting, and the Alpha Pack are becoming more of a threat with each passing day. Meanwhile, Thomas unwittingly does something that shocks the entire pack, including himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, if anyone wants to translate this fic or create fan art or anything similar, don't be afraid to shoot me a comment. Frankly, I'd be honored to post fan art for this fic, and I would give credit to the creator.
> 
> But please, do not repost this fic on other websites without my knowledge.
> 
> Also, I would like to say that the only two ships I will be willing to end on are either Sterek or Newtmas (or neither). I apologize if you don't ship either, but I do not feel comfortable writing Thominho, Sterekmas, Stydia, etc. Sorry if I sound like a hardass or narrowminded, but I would hate to cheat you out of a good fic because I feel incapable of writing the chemistry of that relationship.
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf or The Maze Runner. They belong to MTV/Jeff Davis and James Dashner.

The shouting begins almost immediately. The interrogating officer rises from his seat and walks towards Thomas, looking more angry with each passing second.

"You can't be in here!" he yells, grabbing the teen by the bicep, rather roughly, and tugging him towards the door.

"Wait, wait, wait," Thomas says, a mantra that gets more and more distressed the harder the officer tries pulling him away from the room. Panicking, Thomas tries wrenching his arm away from the officer, but the man manages to get behind him, grabbing him by both arms to hold him back. Thomas kicks back at the man's shin, but misses. "Wait, stop! Let me go! Get _off_ me! Minho!"

The Glader in question is handcuffed to the table and thus can't do much from his position but yell and pull against the cuff around his wrist. " _Thomas_! Hey, let go of him!"

This all happens within seconds. Amidst his hysteria, a switch flips in Thomas's brain, and his shouts change. "Dad!" he screams. "Dad!"

The heavy door flies into the wall, narrowly missing the officer trying to get Thomas out of the room. The grip on Thomas's arms goes slack at once, and Thomas jerks forward. Freed of the restraint, he scrambles towards his friend, heart still pounding in shock. The shouting behind him is starting to lower in volume, and Thomas can make out both Deputy Parrish's voice and his father's, but he pays it no mind.

"Hurry, get me out of these," Minho says in a near-whisper, tugging once again at the cuffs. One is encircled around his right wrist, while the other is clipped around part of the table.

"Minho—"

"C'mon man, we don't have a lotta time." He jerks his head over to the door, where Parrish, Thomas's dad, and the interrogation officer are conversing amongst themselves. "Those guys won't be talking for long, and I know that one shank has a gun on him."

"Min—"

"Dude, come on, we can talk later, just get me out of these."

"Minho!" Thomas hisses. Finally, the Glader seems to break out of his frenzy. He stops yanking at the handcuffs, which Thomas is grateful for. Minho's wrist is chafing against the metal, and Thomas can see the irritated redness it has already left behind. "You gotta chill out, man."

"Dude, what are you  _talking_ about?" Minho says. "This is another one of WICKED's stupid Trials. We gotta go, man; find Brenda. She's not my favorite, but she'll know what's going on."

Minho, to put it simply, looks like shit. There's a huge bruise wrapping around his left cheekbone, leading into a black eye, and his face is covered in sweat and dirt. His hair is wild and untamed. He's dressed in the same set of clothes he'd been in when they jumped through the Flat Trans, but they're stained with dirt and grass stains, even torn in some places. Thomas knows how different he himself looks, pale and lacking certain muscle. Minho, on the other hand, looks almost the same as he had during the Trials.

 _Where have you_ been  _these past few days_ _?_ Thomas wants to ask.

"This is real," he says instead. At the puzzled expression on his friend's face, Thomas hastily continues. "All of this. I heard on the radio; Ava Paige was arrested. Our whole time with WICKED was just a stupid simulation we were put into once we were…kidnapped. We're out, man."

"No…no, that's not—"

" _Think_ about it, Minho," Thomas persists. "Ava Paige promised us Paradise, and look where we are. Have you seen a single Crank around here? Or people wearing face masks, like in Denver? This is  _real_. Have you seen the sun outside? It's completely normal. And even our names; Teresa, Aris, Rachel, and I, all of those names were fake ones. But yours, and all the other Gladers', your names are your actual names."

Though Minho still looks hesitant, he heaves a sigh. "Okay, fine. Say we are out, and all of _that_ ," he waves his free hand, "was fake. How long were we… you know, missing?"

Thomas shrugs. "About three months, is what I've been told. We were let out of the simulation a few days ago."

"Okay, I can roll with that. But then, when I woke up, why was I in some nasty alley?"

"I don't know," Thomas answers truthfully. "If it makes you feel better, I woke up in the freaking Wildlife Preserve."

"Well, that at least makes sense," Minho grumbles. "You are, after all, an animal, Thomas."

The laugh is startled out of him, but Minho's lips quirk into a tiny smile, and he's obviously joking around, so Thomas counts it as a win.

"Are you okay?" he asks, changing the subject. A bolt of relief flashes through him when Minho grins. It's genuine, and identical to the ones he used to give Thomas back in the Maze, when they were running and Thomas made a joke or tried using the Glader slang that never quite sounded right from his mouth.

"Oh, I'm shucking  _fantastic_ , Tom-boy," Minho replies sarcastically. Thomas huffs a breathless laugh.

_Yep, it's Minho alright._

"It's good to see your ugly face," Minho says.

"Yeah, you too."

* * *

The rest of the day is hectic. It takes quite a bit of convincing, but due to the fact that Minho doesn't actually remember who his parents are, his last name, or even his age, Thomas manages to plead enough to get Minho to stay with them, for the time being. Information is sent out, searching for Minho's parents, as they'd done with Rachel, and the Sheriff spends a solid two hours filling out the proper paperwork to keep Minho in his temporary care. Thomas's father, though with some difficulty, is able to enroll Minho at Beacon Hills High School, as a junior, and even align his timetable with Thomas's.

The rest of the day is hectic, yes, but the following week is even more so. Minho asks what the hell kind of a name 'Stiles' is when Thomas tells him, and Thomas laughs, but agrees. Even despite the more relaxed air of things, Thomas never really leaves Minho's side, and he spends half of his time fretting over whether to tell Minho about the whole "werewolves existing" thing, and, branching off of that, the "Alpha Pack" issue the pack is dealing with. The other half of his time is consumed with working on homework, trying to get Minho on good terms with the pack members (even Derek), and re-immersing himself into the world of the supernatural, studying the translated bestiary. 

It's a little after five on Friday evening when Scott texts him about an apparent pack meeting, apologizing for it being last minute and claiming it is urgent. Thomas focuses his attention on his phone, thumbing at the home button as he debates whether to ask if he should bring Minho, or just do it. Surely Minho deserves to know about the threat? Thomas isn't sure if Rachel knows about it; she's been staying with Lydia's family, and Thomas doesn't know if Lydia would've told her or not.

 _Probably not_ , he thinks. The final decision on whether to tell Minho and Rachel is up to Derek, and considering how he tried to keep it hidden from Thomas, he doesn't have too much hope that Derek will want the others to know, and Thomas doubts Lydia would deliberately disobey the alpha. Thomas purses his lips.

 _You know what? Screw Derek_. Thomas rises from his desk chair, pushing his phone into his pocket and making sure to shut his laptop before turning to face Minho. Said ex-Glader is sprawled out on Thomas's bed, half-snoring and dead to the world. He's been asleep pretty much since they got home from school.

"Minho," Thomas says. He receives a grumble in response.

"Hey, Minho. Wake up." A long, drawn out whine, and the dark-haired teen buries his face in Thomas's pillow.

"…Min—"

"God,  _what_?" Minho groans, raising his head to frown half-heartedly at Thomas.

"Gotta wake up, man. We're meeting up with everyone at Derek's place, and if you don't hurry up, we're gonna be late."

Minho huffs, but sits up anyway, rubbing his eyes. "Ugh, why?"

Thomas shrugs. "Not sure yet," he admits. He grabs his lanyard off his desk, attached to it are the keys to his Jeep and to the house, and he waits for Minho to comb his hair into something presentable with his fingers, then walks out of the room without waiting. Minho catches up, of course, and the pair tug their shoes on by the front door before stepping outside. 

"You know, you never answered my question," Minho says. Stiles frowns.

"What question? From when?" he asks, unlocking the Jeep and sliding behind the wheel as Minho climbs into the passenger seat. As they buckle their seatbelts, Minho continues.

"From this morning, after your dad dropped us off at the school."

"Oh," Stiles says, trying to think back to that morning. Then he shrugs slightly, pushing the correct key into the ignition and starting the vehicle. "And what was that question, again?"

"Everyone in your friend group here is your age except for Derek. How did he end up running around with a group of teenagers?" Minho asks, and yeah, Stiles now remembers a question similar to that that Minho asked this morning.

"Long story, kinda hard to explain," Stiles admits, pulling out of the driveway and onto the road. "But I do know that he was in the pack before everything that happened to me and you and the others."

Minho chuckles at his word choice, lounging back in his seat. "I like that. 'Pack'. You guys _are_ like a bunch of wolves."

Minho laughs, and Stiles can't help but think he has no idea how right he is.

 

Stiles parks in between Jackson's Porsche and Scott's motorbike, shifting the Jeep into _Park_ and twisting the key in the key in the ignition to turn off the engine. He opens the door and slips out of the powdery blue vehicle, waiting until Minho does the same before he locks it.

"Your older buddy Derek lives _here_?" Minho says in distaste, crinkling his nose as he looks up at the worn, abandoned-looking building. Stiles nods.

"He owns the whole building, but he lives on the top floor, in the loft. He was telling Erica the other day about making renovations to the rest of the building, though," Stiles explains, then frowns to himself. Erica, Isaac, and Boyd, hadn't shown up at school today. Stiles had assumed they were at Derek's for whatever reason, but maybe something had happened, and that was the reason for such a last-minute meeting?

"Come on," Thomas says, pushing away the thoughts as he moves the enter the building. Minho follows suit, and the walk up multiple flights of stairs takes all of three minutes. Thomas is pretty much out of breath by the time they reach the top.

"Dude, you gotta start running more," Minho says.

"Oh sorry, it's not like I haven't been busy or anything," Thomas snaps sarcastically. Minho raises his hands in a defensive gesture, but he's smirking.

"Touchy, touchy," he tsks, his smirk widening into a grin. Thomas rolls his eyes and looks at the huge metal door leading into the loft. He moves his hand forward to knock, but the door is being hauled open before he can even make contact with it.

"Get in here," Derek says gruffly. Thomas snorts, but walks into the loft, as does Minho, and Derek shuts the metal door behind them. The pack is lounging around in a small living room-like area. Scott and Allison are canoodling on the sofa; Lydia is next to them, flipping through an ancient-looking tome; Jackson is sitting in a small armchair with his feet propped up on the coffee table; Isaac is next to Rachel (Lydia actually brought her) on a second sofa, his expression tight with worry; Peter has his back to them, staring out a large window on the far wall, and.... Erica and Boyd aren't there. Thomas clenches his jaw at the implication, and pauses where he stands. Minho gives him a quizzical look, but moves to sit between Isaac and Rachel.

"Where's Erica and Boyd?" Thomas asks, turning towards Derek with a deep frown. Derek sighs and looks to Isaac before speaking.

"Missing," Derek says.

"We hope," Isaac mutters. His face is one of absolute misery. Thomas bites at his lower lip.

"How long have they been missing? I know they weren't at school today, but neither was Isaac. When did you realize they were gone?" he asks, shifting his gaze from Isaac to Derek and back again.

"Last night, I-I don't know when exactly," Isaac says. "Boyd and I were here at the loft. Derek was at Deaton's, and Erica, she texted Boyd, and he just took off without saying a word. I followed his scent to the Preserve, and I.... There were these howls, but they weren't...it wasn't them, it was the alphas."

"You're sure?" Thomas demands, striding further into the room and sitting down on the floor, cross-legged. Derek frowns, but Thomas ignores the look.

"Positive," Isaac nods. He wrings his hands and runs his fingers through his curls, expression one of distress and guilt. "And they just, they kept coming closer...and I ran."

"So we don't know for sure," Scott says, trying and failing to make his tone lighter.

"I'd say we're pretty damn sure, McCall," Jackson snaps. The room falls into a tense silence.

"...So, anyone feel like filling me in on what the shuck is going on?" Minho says, looking to him. Derek huffs out a breath and looks pointedly at Thomas.

"You brought him here, you tell him," he says, leaving no room for argument. Though Thomas hadn't been planning on arguing about it, Derek's tone makes him want to. He swallows down a snarky comment and focuses on Minho.

He gestures to Isaac. "Werewolf," he says. Then points at one person at a time, going around the room and listing what they are. "Werewolf, human who hunts werewolves and is also dating one, banshee, lizard-turned werewolf, werewolf that died and came back to life, alpha werewolf, ex-Glader human from Group B, and human that can do magic." He ends gesturing to himself. Minho raises his eyebrows.

"You can do magic?"

Thomas scoffs, but a smile finds its way to his mouth anyway. "Out of everything I just said,  _that_ _'s_ the part that gets your attention?"

Minho shrugs. "I've heard weirder things from people I don't trust that turned out to be true, and I doubt you're lying. Kinda curious how she's a banshee," he motions to Lydia, then to Peter, "and how he died and came back to life, but I'm more curious about you, klunkhead. You never did anything magical in the Glade. Well, besides your weird telepathy thing with Teresa and Aris."

Thomas nods. "Rachel can do it, too. Rachel and Aris were the equivalent of me and Teresa in Group B, remember?"

"Didn't you say she died?" Minho turns to Rachel. "Didn't you die?"

"I did, but I didn't...? Can't explain it myself." She shakes her head, and looks to Thomas. "Got any proof of the werewolf thing? Not that I don't trust you or whatever, but I don't know if I believe you."

"I get it, no hard feelings," Thomas says assuringly. He looks over his shoulder at Derek, then at Scott, then Jackson, then Isaac. "Who wants to show her?"

The snaps and cracks of shifting bone sound from behind him, and when Thomas turns, he sees Derek in his beta-form. His eyes flash alpha red, and Thomas takes a moment to admire the sheer _impracticality_ of  _werewolves existing._  Smug-faced, he turns back around to see the ex-Gladers' expressions. Rachel's eyebrows seem to be reaching for her hairline, her eyes wide and her face open with disbelief. Minho, on the other hand, looks a combination of impressed and delighted. He grins, and when he meets Thomas's eyes, he outright _laughs_.

"And here I thought Grievers and Cranks were the weirdest thing to happen to us."

Thomas is inclined to agree with him.

 

The pack meeting lasts another fifteen minutes, in which Thomas, with some contribution of the pack, gets Rachel and Minho up to speed on the Alpha Pack and everything else going on. Once done explaining, back to the part where Erica and Boyd are now missing, the lighter mood that Minho had managed to cause drops back into something more subdued.

Thomas sighs, explanation finished, and Minho furrows his brow.

"Didn't you say the alphas were gone? Like, disappeared off the map?" he asks. At Scott's confirming nod, he continues. "So, this means they're back."

Dawning realization makes Thomas's eyes widen. "Which means," he says slowly, "which means, whatever they left for, they found it."

"Another alpha?" Allison asks, intrigued. Isaac thinks about this.

"Maybe. I couldn't tell, based on the howls. It makes sense, but..."

"But?" Lydia presses.

"But, I don't think they left to find another alpha. I mean, they might've, but I don't think that's the only reason."

Thomas shakes his head. "Either way, they wouldn't have taken Erica and Boyd if they didn't have a reason to do so. Do you think they'll kill them?"

"It's a possibility, though I doubt they will without first using them as bait for Derek," says Peter, speaking up for the first time since the meeting had begun. He walks over to the pack, expression thoughtful.

"They're here because they want Derek to join their pack. If he declines, it is likely that the alphas will attempt to kill everyone in Derek's pack, one by one, until Derek either joins them, or they finally kill him for his power."

Silence falls over the room. Thomas releases a long, drawn-out breath. Peter, actually looking troubled, continues, turning to Derek.

"Which means they will seek you out, and soon," Peter says. "They'll want to meet with you, to discuss whatever their offer may be. They may bring your two betas, as hostages. Whatever they choose, you must be prepared for a fight."

A small noise from Jackson captures Thomas's attention. "Let me get this straight," Jackson begins slowly. "You want _us_ , a group of betas, humans, and  _teenagers_ , to fight a pack of alphas?" He snorts. "And you expect us to win?"

"I do," Peter nods. "Especially with a little bit of help."

At this, Peter's gaze turns on Thomas, who jumps at the sudden attention.

" _Me_?" he gapes.

"Yes, you," says Peter. He looks at Rachel. "You can speak telepathically, and can likely do other things, too. Which means you also might come in handy."

"And how exactly do you expect us to be helpful when I, for one, can't control my abilities at all, and she didn't even know she had them?"

Peter gives Thomas a look, one that implies he thinks Thomas is the most idiotic person he knows. Peter even goes as far as rolling his eyes before saying: "Practice, of course. I'm sure Dr. Deaton wouldn't mind giving you some pointers."

"Hey Stiles?" Thomas turns towards Scott, confused at the uneasy look on his face.

"What?" he asks, frowning.

"...How did you get here? You said your dad had the afternoon shift today, and the car that pulled in sounded like the Jeep."

"I drove," Thomas says slowly, not understanding what was so-

 _Oh my God. I drove. I_ drove.

All at once, the blood drains from his face, and he turns his shocked eyes on Minho. Minho, who's expression has twisted with realization.

"I drove," Thomas says weakly. "I don't know how to drive."

No one says a word. It's a long two minutes of silence before someone — Derek — speaks up quietly.

"I'll drive you two home," he says. He lifts his eyes to Scott, who nods. His expression is uncharacteristically solemn.

"I'll drive the Jeep back. Hey," he says, and it takes Thomas a moment or two for him to realize Scott is talking to him now, trying to catch his gaze. "Don't worry about it. You didn't hurt anyone or anything."

No one in the pack finds that they can argue with Thomas's response.

"...But I could've." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name change from Thomas to Stiles is entirely intentional, not an inconsistency error on my part.
> 
> I just returned from vacation, and I struggled to decide how I wanted to end this fic, but now I think I have it sorted out. It's getting there that's going to be rough.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas begins practicing with his new-found, and older, abilities, while the threat of the Alpha Pack draws closer. The pack needs answers, but all they get are more questions.

Thomas clenches his jaw; he releases his breath in an exhale that is more of a growl. A quiet huff of amusement has him snapping his head around. Isaac grins at him from the other side of the room.

"Impressive growl," he says. "Almost as intimidating as Derek's."

Thomas sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, too tired to think up a scathing comeback. He gestures to the metal table in front of him and the miscellaneous objects scattered on top of it. "I just can't _get_ this."

"On the contrary, Mr. Stilinski, you've been doing rather exceptionally." At Deaton's chiming voice, Thomas leans back against the table and turns to look at the vet. He frowns, choosing not to voice his disagreement on the matter. The most he's been able to do thus far is make the ballpoint pen and a few other of the smaller objects on the table rattle.

Thomas has been at it since he got out of school. If Isaac has shown up, it means it must be somewhere near dinner time, and the wolf is here to give him a ride home.

Thomas shakes his head. He looks at Isaac. "Just, gimme a minute, okay? I really want to get this."

At Isaac's nod, Thomas refocuses his attention on the objects on the metal table. There are relatively large things and relatively small ones, but as Thomas scans the objects, his eyes fall to the same one that he's been glancing at the whole session: the tennis ball.

The thing isn't new. Rather, the yellow fuzz on the outside (it isn't really yellow anymore) appears close to ripping off completely. The dogs in Deaton's care have certainly done a number on the ball. It's chewed to hell and the only thing keeping it from rolling off the table and onto the floor is the same ballpoint pen Thomas had messed with earlier in the session.

The tennis ball is the second largest object on the table. And Thomas _burns_ with the need to move it.

He furrows his brow as he stares at the ball. He thinks of Deaton's various tips and advice; that Thomas should visualize lifting the ball, or visualize whatever he's attempting to do in general. He thinks of what the vet said about his abilities emerging when Thomas is under stress or emitting strong emotion.

There was the glass of water in his bathroom, the way he caught his own fall when he snuck out...

Deaton said he has to control his emotions if he ever wants to control his abilities. Has to find an anchor.

 _Focus, Thomas._ He _needs_ to do this. Needs it like he needs air. He breathes in deep to quell his rising frustration and makes himself concentrate. Makes himself imagine lifting the tennis ball; makes himself see his fingers wrapped around it and holding it up.

_Focus._

Thomas isn't sure when his eyes closed, but a gasp from behind him — Isaac — has his eyes flying open to see the reason for the noise.

When he first sees the tennis ball hovering a good six inches above the metal table, the shock of it almost causes Thomas to drop it, but he catches himself. He turns in a slow half-circle to face Deaton, his eyes locked on the tennis ball. It moves with him.

Thomas laughs. He continues turning, now to look at Isaac. He even takes his eyes off the ball. It remains floating in the air.

"Hey Isaac," he says. "Catch."

He pictures tossing the ball towards the beta, and to his awe, the tennis ball does just that. It lofts forward, as if Thomas actually threw it, and falls into Isaac's outstretched hand. He curls his fingers around the ball and looks up at Thomas, his expression something akin to amazement.

"Whoa," he breathes.

"Excellent work today, Mr. Stilinski. Get some rest tonight and I expect to see you here tomorrow at the same time."

Thomas glances over at the vet and nods, still watching Isaac as he marvels at the tennis ball in his hand.

A grin breaks out onto Thomas's face.

"Stare at that tennis ball any harder and you're pretty much _asking_ me to make a dog joke."

Isaac snorts and looks up from the ball. "Here," he says, and tosses the ball back.

Thomas catches it.

* * *

The lessons continue every day after school. When Thomas asks about Rachel, Deaton tells him that she comes in in the mornings before school, whereas Thomas comes in in the afternoon.

After a week, Thomas has proven himself capable of lifting objects as heavy as a fifty-pound bag of dog food, and Deaton claims that Thomas can continue to grow his telekinesis at home or in private, but under no circumstances should Thomas use his abilities in public.

"This power you've been gifted with is not a toy, and it is not to be played with," Deaton had told him.

Now that Thomas has shown "mastery" in telekinesis, Deaton is having him move on to a different ability: telepathy. And this session, Deaton requested that he bring a friend.

"Levitate this."

Of course, Thomas is sixteen and has influences like Minho, so maybe having some fun with his abilities is something Deaton just doesn't need to know about.

"Okay," Thomas shrugs and doesn't even need to look at the goo-filled jar in Minho's hand before lifting it high in the air. Now that Thomas can lift heavier, bigger things, the smaller ones are much easier to handle.

The back door to the clinic shuts, and the sound surprises Thomas so much that the connection breaks and the jar plummets to the floor. Thomas panics and lunges forward. He catches the jar about an inch away from the tile.

Heart pounding, Thomas slowly rises back up. Minho's face is frozen in shock. Thomas looks over towards the back of the room and sees Deaton standing in the doorway, looking less than amused.

"I do remember telling you that these abilities are not to be played with, Mr. Stilinski," he says, stepped further into the room. He stops on the opposite side of the metal examination table. "It's reassuring to know that you listen so attentively."

Deaton's tone remains the same as always, but the sarcasm is more than obvious.

"Nothing even broke," Thomas grumbles, and he sets the unlabeled jar back on the counter where Minho found it.

"And you are lucky it didn't. Do you know what's in that particular jar?" asks Deaton.

"Do I want to?" Thomas says. Deaton walks around the table to pick up the jar, leveling his gaze with Thomas's.

"This is kanima venom. A drop of this on your skin or ingested would paralyze you from the neck downward, for an indeterminable amount of time." Deaton places the jar back and returns to the other side of the table. "I hope you've learned your lesson."

Thomas nods and looks back at Minho, who has an expression caught somewhere between guilty and apologetic. Thomas shrugs and rolls his eyes, a gesture that Deaton can't see from this angle. Minho's shoulders shake with silent laughter, and Thomas, grinning, returns his attention to Deaton.

"Now, Stiles, there have been select people you've been able to communicate with telepathically, correct?" Deaton asks, and Thomas nods.

"Yeah. But, I mean— I've never tried it with anyone... well, normal," he admits. Deaton hums contemplatively.

"I believe it's possible, but I also think it's going to be very difficult sustaining a connection with someone without that power. You're going to be doing most of the work, Stiles, as you will have to both send your thoughts for them to hear, and listen to theirs for a reply."

Thomas's eyebrows raise. "What, like, mind-reading?"

"...Somewhat," Deaton says. "Though my guess is that you will only be able to read what is at the forefront of their mind. I highly doubt you'll be able to delve deeper and  _truly_ look into their thoughts. Only what they're focusing on or thinking at that moment."

"That's...probably for the better, honestly," Thomas says after a small pause. Minho snorts.

"So, Stiles, would you like to give it a try?" Deaton says. Thomas clears his throat and gives a small nod. He closes his eyes and tries to remember how it felt when he sent his thoughts to Teresa back in the Glade, and how it felt to send them to Rachel.

 _Minho, can you hear me?_ Thomas asks, sending the thought away from him. A few moments of pause and he gets a reply. But not from the right person.

 _Thomas?_ Rachel says. Thomas frowns.

 _No, I'm trying to connect with Minho,_ he explains.

 _You're already onto that? I'm still trying to lift stuff!_ she says.

_Yeah, but I have to keep trying, so..._

_Oh okay, I'll leave you alone,_ she says, and Thomas feels a void open up in his mind as Rachel's presence leaves. It's not nearly as immense of a vacancy as Teresa's had been. Thomas tries for a second time, reaching out with his mind to try to connect to Minho's.

 _Minho, can you hear me?_ he asks, picturing his friend and imagining sending the thought-wave to him. Someone yelps loudly, and Thomas's eyes shoot open. Minho's staring at him with an expression of shock.

"Did you just...?" He turns to Deaton. "Did he...?"

Deaton nods. "I believe he did. Now, Stiles, try to listen for Minho's response. This will be the hard part. You'll have to delve into his mind. How far depends on how hard Minho is thinking his response." The vet gives Minho a hard look. "Minho, you need to keep your response at the front of your mind. You have to actively be thinking it, or this is not going to work."

Minho's face sobers and he nods.

Thomas closes his eyes once again. This time, instead of constructing a sentence and sending it, he's searching for Minho's. Rather than keep his mind open and listen for it, he has to willfully try to find it. Thomas mentally reaches forward, repeating the same thing as before where he connected with Minho, and he listens. Hard.

At first, there's nothing. There's nothing for such a long time, Thomas considers giving up. But then, he begins to hear it. A static buzzing sound, slowly getting louder. As it gets louder, Thomas realizes he can make out words. Thoughts. They overlap and go by so fast Thomas can't even begin to understand them, but then a sentence comes through. It's muddy, but when Thomas latches onto it, it becomes clearer.

_This is insane, dude._

Thomas replies.  _I know. Isn't it cool?_

Thomas gets Minho's answer immediately.  _Yeah, it's awesome!_

Thomas pulls back from Minho's mind, a different-feeling presence than Rachel's, and forces his eyes open.

"That is so shucking cool," Minho whispers, sounding awestruck. Thomas blinks a few times and chuckles, humming in agreement. A steady pounding is beginning in his head. Not necessarily even a headache; just a light throbbing that beats to the time of his heart.

"Would you like a tissue, Mr. Stilinski?" Deaton asks, and Thomas raises his fingers to his nose. Once again, it has begun bleeding. But not nearly as bad as before.

He accepts Deaton's offer and wipes up the blood, then carefully blows his nose. 

"Good work once again, Stiles. Tomorrow you make have the day off, but I do want you to continue practicing with this. It may very well come in handy."

* * *

Derek had offered to give Thomas and Minho a ride to school on Tuesday. Thomas remembers that much. It's everything after that's a little fuzzy.

Thomas wishes he knew what had happened, even if only to know if Minho is okay. He would ask him via telepathy, but Thomas can't focus enough to send a thought through. That scares him, too.

_What if I have, like, brain damage or something? I could be totally fucked and not even know. Did I get hit on the head? Shuck, this is horrible._

Thomas coughs and winces when the sound echoes back at him. He wonders if this is a normal thing that happens in Beacon Hills; getting kidnapped and dropped off in some well. It seems like the type of thing to happen in such a freaky town.

"Hello?" Thomas hollers for the thirtieth time. "Can someone please get me out of here?"

He's tried climbing multiple times already. But even if he wasn't sopping wet, the stones are smooth and have no ridges for him to grab onto. Not to mention, the rock walls are oddly sandy, making it even _harder_ to get a good grip. He's resigned himself to just keep from drowning until his rescue team shows up. Thomas has no doubt that they will, he just prefers if it would happen  _before_ he drowns.

Thomas glances down at his watch, but he can't see the screen to tell if it works anymore. It got dark about a half an hour ago, by his guess. Thomas has no idea how long he's been down here treading water; just that it feels like hours, and his legs are seriously beginning to cramp up.

Thomas thinks as hard as he can, directing the thought at the person easiest to speak to: Rachel.

 _I'm in a well. Somewhere. I don't know where. But please hurry up!_ he pleads. His legs lock up and he sinks beneath the freezing water.

It takes far too much energy to get his legs moving again. But Thomas manages it regardless and resurfaces, breathing hard. He blinks water out of his eyes and looks up. There's a pale light coming from the moon, but it's hardly enough to see by.

Still, Thomas catches sight of a small groove in the smooth rocks. He propels himself upward and digs his fingers in, heaving himself up. He grabs a rock protruding from the wall a bit higher up. Once he's sure he has a tight hold on it, he moves his bare toes into the groove his fingers were in and lifts his other hand to find a higher handhold. But his foot slips in the sandy groove. He goes plummeting back down into the water, and in his shock, the water goes up his nose. He, again, resurfaces.

Thomas coughs. Hard, hacking, miserable coughs and his exhausted legs go back to treading water.

" _Fuck_!" he shouts, pissed. He doesn't scream to voice his frustration, but it's a near thing. He  _does_ , however, punch the wall. It hurts like a  _bitch_.

"This is such bullshit," he grumbles, nursing his throbbing hand. A thought strikes him. He hasn't tried telekinesis yet. He imagines himself lifting the water, but for whatever reason, that fails to work. He tries again, imagining cupping it in his hands and lifting it up. Nothing.

He whines. "This is shucking stupid. Why don't I just levitate  _myself_ out of here while I'm at it?"

Now there's a thought. Thinking of lifting himself doesn't work, nor did he expect it to. So he tries a different tactic. He imagines  _jumping_ , jumping as high as he possibly can. When he opens his eyes, he's still in the fucking well.

" _Hello_!" he yells. "Anyone care to give me a hand here?"

"Stiles!"

Thomas snaps his head up, mouth agape as he squints. There's a silhouette leaning over the side of the well. Thomas recognizes it.

"Scott!" he answers, relief spreading all the way to his goddamn  _toes_. "Get me out of here!"

"Your dad and Minho are coming with a rope!" Scott replies. He runs a hand through his hair. "We've been looking for you for hours. Are you okay?"

"No!" Thomas yells. "I'm soaked, cold, pissed off, and my legs are killing me!"

Even Scott's silhouette looks panicked. "Well, just...just keep swimming for, like, ten more minutes, and we can get you out, okay?"

Thomas does as Scott tells him, and, as promised, ten minutes later he's being hauled from the well. Minho pulls him over the lip of the well and Thomas groans when his knees hit the ground.

" _Finally_ ," he says, wanting nothing more than to lay down and never get back up.

"Well, well, well," Minho says, and Thomas glares at him, not appreciating the badly-timed pun at all.

"You okay, kid?" his dad asks. Thomas gives him a small smile and nods.

"Come on, let's get you out of here," Scott says, grabbing Thomas's arm. He releases it immediately, yelping and cradling his hand.

"Scott, what's wrong?" Isaac asks, worried. Scott holds out his hand. His palm is red and looks...as if he's been  _burned_. Thomas's eyes widen, even though Scott quickly heals.

"Come on, we have to get you to Deaton's. The others are waiting there," Minho says. Thomas opens his mouth to protest, but doesn't get a word in before Minho is helping him upright. Without complaint.

Scott frowns deeply. "Yeah...let's get you to Deaton's."

* * *

"But why didn't you try to contact someone?" Deaton asks. Thomas sighs.

"I _did_ try," he says snappily. "But I  _couldn't_. It just wasn't working, I don't know why. Neither was anything else I tried. I tried the telekinesis thing to see if maybe I could lift the water, or even myself, but it didn't work. I even tried climbing! But the walls were too smooth and covered in this sand, so I couldn't—"

"What kind of sand?" Deaton interrupts, sounding intrigued. Thomas shrugs.

"I don't know, it was too dark to see it. But it was dark, like dirt," he says. Deaton holds his hand out and Thomas looks at it quizzically.

"Your hand, Mr. Stilinski."

Thomas places his hand in Deaton's, more confused than ever. The vet looks at it carefully before nodding and grabbing a small scalpel.

"Hold still," he advises. Thomas gulps and does so, tensed in preparation for pain that doesn't come. Deaton digs the sand and grime out from under Thomas's fingernails and collects it in a small vial. He peers at it closely.

"Just as I thought," he says.

"What is it?" Jackson asks, leaning forward to get a look himself.

"Mountain Ash. The very same Mountain Ash, I believe, that was stolen from me."

The room falls quiet.

"The water must have been full of it," Lydia mumbles. "That's why Scott couldn't touch you."

"Is that why my abilities wouldn't work?" Thomas asks suddenly, looking at Deaton. The vet nods.

"Yes, I believe so."

"Do you remember at all what happened when you got taken?" Derek demands. Thomas shakes his head.

"Not at all. Minho, you?"

Minho hesitates briefly. "I remember you woke up late and you were still getting dressed while I was waiting outside for Derek. He showed up, so I went in to get you, but you just...weren't there. Your shoes and socks and bag were all lying on the floor."

"Could you smell anything?" Thomas asks, looking at Derek now.

"I followed a scent trail out your window and as far as the Preserve, but then I lost it. I called in the betas to help, but we couldn't find it anywhere. It didn't smell like a werewolf scent, though."

"So how'd you find me?" Thomas asks out of curiosity. Most of the people in the room turn to look at Lydia. She huffs and folds her arms.

"I knew you were near water. I could hear it dripping," she says, staring off in a trance-like state.

"That one of the benefits of being a banshee?" Thomas asks.

Allison nods.

"So, are we all in agreement that this was the Alpha Pack?" Scott asks.

"It couldn't have been, Scott," Allison argues. "Werewolves can't handle Mountain Ash. And Derek said it didn't smell like a werewolf did it."

"It had to be someone else," Isaac agrees.

"We don't need another problem to deal with," Derek says through gritted teeth.

"On the contrary, Derek, I don't think this is a separate problem at all. Whomever or whatever the Alpha Pack left to retrieve, they found it, and now they know Mountain Ash negatively affects Stiles as well. That means they knew about his abilities. I think it this has something to do with Stiles's disappearance over the summer. Which means, whatever they're planning, it won't be good for anyone." 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The full moon arrives; and so does the Alpha Pack, with a few unexpected guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a longer chapter.

"I still don't get what's taking so long, though," Isaac says, fretting with a loose string on his jeans. He hasn't touched his food. "I mean, if they took Erica and Boyd, you'd think they'd want to use them, right?"

Thomas frowns and thinks. "Well," he begins slowly, "isn't the full moon coming up? Maybe that has something to do with whatever they're planning. Your powers are heightened on the full moon, right?"

"No, not really," Isaac says. "We're just less in control of them."

Scott and Allison join them at the lunch table. The rest of the pack quickly follows suit.

"The full moon is tomorrow night," Allison says, catching onto their conversation. Scott nods, using his fork and pushing his food around on his tray with disinterest.

"Yeah, Derek thinks the alphas are waiting for the full moon to do something," he says, looking up from his lunch. He frowns. "I just don't get why they would do something so predictable."

"What do you mean?" Rachel says.

"They haven't done  _anything_ yet, except, y'know, the thing with Stiles," Scott explains. "So, they know we know that they're in town, or at least nearby, but they haven't done anything yet. We pretty much _know_ they have Erica and Boyd. But they're waiting for something. Derek thinks it's the full moon; I'm not so sure."

"Well, what do you think they're waiting for, Scott?" Thomas asks, equally humoring him and curious himself.

Scott hesitates. Looks like a kicked puppy. "I just...I don't know. But I know...this isn't going to be _it_. I mean, something might  _happen_ on the full moon, but...I don't think that they plan to completely take us out. Not yet. They're having  _fun_. They're playing with us, don't you guys _see_ that?"

"So...what exactly are you saying, McCall?" Jackson says.

Scott leans forward and lowers his voice, for the first time realizing they're in a cafeteria full of people. "I just don't—"

A hand slams down on the table between Allison and Scott. Thomas looks up and sees two boys he doesn't recognize. They're identical twins, wearing matching leather jackets and oozing superiority. Thomas dislikes them immediately. The one on the left grins.

"Our pack is arranging a meeting with yours. All of you. Tomorrow, midnight. Don't be late," he says. They both flash two terrifying sets of blood red eyes. Both alphas.

Just as suddenly as they arrived, the twins walk away, leaving the cafeteria altogether. The lunchroom is eerily quiet. Students slowly begin picking up conversation again, once they see there's not going to be a fight, and Thomas stares at the door that the twins exited out of.

"You know what this means, right?" Lydia says. Everyone turns to look at her.

"What?" says Isaac.

"It means they want to negotiate. They know we probably won't agree. Which means, they're either planning to fight, or they've got something else up their sleeve that we don't know about yet."

* * *

His last two classes go by agonizingly slow after that. Thomas spends most of them thinking about tomorrow night, and whatever the Alpha Pack might be planning. It's obvious that they're, like, four steps ahead, and Thomas can't help but be annoyed by it. As far as he knows, Derek plans to run in there, well...planless. Thomas is positive that will get him killed.

Halfway through his last class, Derek sends out a _'_ _pack meeting right after school'_  text.

By the time the bell rings to signify the end of the day, Thomas is jittery and unable to hold still, despite the fact that he took his Adderall this morning. He gets outside, sees that it's raining, and curses when he remembers he can't drive. Thomas turns around, ready to find one of the pack members and demand a ride, but Allison beats him to it.

"Come with me," she says impatiently, twirling her keys on her finger. Thomas does so, shooting Minho a quick text that he went with Allison and not to worry. He climbs into Allison's dad's SUV and she guns it out of the parking lot, managing to make it out before the rest of the student body.

The drive is quiet, aside from the patter of rain and occasional squeak of the windshield wipers. Allison doesn't say a word, not even when they pull up in front of her house.

"Allison, wha—"

"Hush," she says, unlocking the front door and ushering him inside. "We have to make this quick, because of the pack meeting. Come here."

She leads him through the house and down into the basement. There's a table in the center of the room with a large map on it and a large assortment of weapons. Thomas finds himself nervous at the sight of all of the guns.

"Relax, we're not going to hurt you."

Thomas spins around at the new voice. At the top of the stairs is a man he knows he should recognize, but doesn't.

"My dad," Allison says by way of explanation. "Dad, we've gotta make this quick."

Mr. Argent nods and joins them in the basement. He gestures to the map on the table. Thomas and Allison gather around it.

"Allison texted me saying that the Alpha Pack is planning a meeting tomorrow night. Is this true?" Argent asks. Thomas nods.

"Yeah. Come to think of it, they didn't really give us a location," Thomas realizes. Argent points at the map.

"That's where this comes in. This is a map of Beacon Hills. Now, we can eliminate the meeting point from being anywhere near the public, so it would make the most sense for it to be in the Preserve."

"That's still a lot of land, though," Thomas points out.

"I know," Argent says. "Where are certain places in the Preserve that would be probable?"

"The well," Thomas says after a moment of pause. "They've been there, that would make sense."

"So would the Hale House," Allison adds. Thomas frowns at her.

She explains. "Right after you went missing over the summer, they left their pack symbol drawn on Derek's front door. At first, we thought they were the ones who took you."

Thomas nods slowly. "So it could be either. The clearing that the well is in, or near the Hale House?"

"You see the problem?" Argent says, pointing to the two locations on the map. He grabs a red marker, pulls off the cap, and circles these two spots. "They want us to split up. Half at one, half at the other. They said don't be late, meaning they'll probably arrive right on time. They want your pack split up to make a fight easier to win."

Thomas's heart sinks. "So...who goes with who? We need to tell Derek about this!"

"No, we can't," Allison says. "That's why I brought you here. I'd have just told him all of this at the meeting if we wanted him to know. Stiles, if he realizes that we don't know which spot it is, he'll try to go alone. That's the problem; he'll get himself killed."

"So...what then? What do we do?" Thomas asks.

"We have to be smart about it. Derek's not going to want us to go because we're human. My dad will come. We'll see if we can get Lydia and Rachel, too. And Minho. Maybe one of the betas, but that'll be pushing it," Allison says. "Derek's going to think it'll be at the well because that's where they took you. So, we all go to the Hale House, which is where the alphas will  _really_ be. And we...talk to them."

Thomas gapes at her.

"Talk to them?" he says. "Do you even actually _have_ a plan?"

Allison bristles. "We hadn't thought that far yet."

"How do you know they'll be at the Hale House and not the well?" Thomas asks.

"Because that's where they left their pack symbol. It's like a declaration of war," Allison explains. "They want Derek to join their pack, so they put their symbol on something of _his_. On  _his_ territory. To make him mad. That's where they want to fight. But it was so long ago, the other betas, and hopefully even Derek, have forgotten about it."

"You two go to your meeting with Derek," Argent says, interrupting their argument. "You need to convince him that the meeting will be at the well."

Thomas and Allison nod, then trudge back up the stairs. They leave the house and hop into the SUV.

Thomas breaks the silence this time.

"Do you really not have any plan at all?" he asks.

"We give you and everyone else weapons," she begins. She pauses. "You and Minho and Rachel do _know_ how to use guns, right?"

Thomas thinks about it. "I do, and Minho does. I'm not sure about Rachel. But I'd honestly be more comfortable with a knife, anyway. I think Minho would too."

Allison nods. "I'll get my dad to get us some. We all meet up with the alphas, listen to their negotiations. They probably won't be too happy that we tricked them, but I don't think they'll attack us. If they do, we fight back, and be loud enough for the rest of the pack to hear us."

"And are you sure this is the smartest thing to do? To split up the pack like this instead of working together?" Thomas asks. Allison nods.

"It's the only way this will work, Stiles," she says. They pull into the parking lot of the loft, and she looks at him. "You get that, don't you?"

Though he doesn't want to, Thomas understands what she means.

"Yeah, I know," he sighs. He opens the car door and looks up at the darkening sky. "Come on, let's get inside before it starts pouring."

 

Thomas realizes very quickly that, now that he knows the feel of Minho's presence, it is much easier to talk to him telepathically. Along with the realization, Thomas takes the time to connect with each pack member at the meeting. Though dubious at first, even Derek agrees to do so.

Convincing Derek that the alphas meant to meet them at the well is shockingly easy. Especially because Scott, Isaac, and even Jackson agree, saying that it makes perfect sense. The only ones who seem particularly suspicious are Lydia and (unfortunately, but not surprisingly) Peter. But neither of them say a thing about their suspicions, and just as soon smooth out the skeptical expressions on their faces.

Thomas knows that Lydia's smart; he thinks she probably already knows that they're up to something.

He's proven right when she demands a ride home from Allison, rather than Jackson, meaning Rachel has to go with Allison, too.

"We just have some girl stuff to talk about," Lydia says, and Jackson immediately stops his arguing. She leans out of the passenger side of the SUV, her hair getting wet. "Stiles, Minho, are you two coming?"

The death glare makes Thomas quick to agree, and he gets into the back seat with Rachel. Minho just as quickly follows suit. He closes the door and the sound of the rain becomes muffled. Lydia closes her door as well, and Allison pulls out of the parking lot. The rain is beginning to pick up.

No one says a word until they're in Allison's room, where no wolves will be able to hear them.

"So, Allison, are you going to explain what your plan is?" Lydia asks. Minho taps Thomas on the shoulder and gives him a confused look. Thomas waves him off.

"First of all, no telling Derek about this," Thomas says. "This is to keep him from getting himself, and the rest of us, killed."

"The full moon's tomorrow," Allison continues. "The wolves are going to be more susceptible to anger. If the alphas push them enough, it's going to lead to a fight. I think that's what the alphas plan to do."

"Which is why they're not going to be seeing the alphas at all," Thomas finishes.

"What do you mean?" Rachel asks, eyebrows furrowing.

"We're leading Derek and the betas to the wrong meeting place," says Thomas. "And we're going to confront the alphas ourselves. We'll negotiate without getting angry, and hopefully, it won't end in a fight."

"But if it does," Allison finishes, "we'll be ready."

Minho snorts. " _How_ exactly will we be ready? It's a pack of  _alpha werewolves_ against a bunch of  _humans_."

Lydia makes an offended noise.

"Humans and a banshee," Minho corrects himself. "But still, you get my point."

A loud click sounds from behind him and Thomas turns around sharply. Peter slips gracefully through Allison's now-opened window. He has the courtesy to shut it behind him. He shakes the water from his hair like a dog.

"You've forgotten the most important one," he says. He flashes his beta blue eyes at them.

"Cool, you wanna come with us?" Thomas asks, unfazed by Peter's dramatic entrance like most of the others.

"I'd be partial to it," he agrees. "You do, of course, realize how stupid this plan is?"

"Yep," Thomas nods.

"Will you be able to keep yourself under control?" Allison asks, giving Peter a look of immense distrust. Thomas leans over to Lydia.

"What happened there?" he whispers, knowing full well that Peter can hear him.

"He killed her aunt," Lydia replies under her breath. Thomas nods in understanding and straightens up.

 Peter rolls his eyes at Allison, the permanent smirk still etched on his lips. "Of course I'll be able to keep myself under control. What do you think I am, some sort of animal?"

Minho and Thomas snort simultaneously.

Peter sits down cross-legged on the floor, looking exceptionally like a kindergartener, and grins.

"So, what's the plan?"

* * *

_"Ethan, Aiden. Bring them out."_

_Thomas doesn't quite feel like himself._

_They're facing the pack of alphas. The whole Hale Pack is there; Derek, Jackson, Isaac, Scott, and even the humans._

_They are right outside the front porch of the burnt-out Hale House._ _There are two bodies lying between the two packs._

_Thomas and the rest of the humans have been shoved towards the back of the group, presumably so the wolves can protect them._

_"Bring who out?" Scott asks._

_"Well, let's just say we have two last little bargaining chips, since these two clearly weren't effective enough," the lead alpha says, nudging one of the bodies with his foot. It makes Thomas feel sick, with both nausea and rage._

_"Cora?" Derek says disbelievingly. His words begin to slur as his fangs grow in his mouth, and Thomas can see him clenching his fists, blood dripping from where his claws are digging into his palms. "Let her go."_

_Minho, the stubborn little shank that he is, shoves his way to the front line with Derek and Scott to see whoever these "bargaining chips" are._

_"No," Minho gasps, his voice dropping into a shocked horror that Thomas doesn't think he's heard except maybe once or twice. Then, it turns furious._

_"No! You_ bastards _!" he howls. The only thing keeping him from throwing himself at the enemy is Scott, who is physically restraining him. "You ugly, sorry sons of bitches! Let him go! Fucking_   _let him GO!"_

_Thomas, equal parts terrified and confused, pushes past Isaac and Jackson to see who—_

 

Thomas wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. He sits up and fumbles in the dark for his phone. The brightness momentarily blinds him, but once he can see again, he checks the time.

11:23 PM.

Allison said she would pick him and Minho up at 11:30. Thomas hurries downstairs and shakes Minho awake from where he's sleeping on the couch and races back up the stairs to pull his shoes on, having slept in his jeans and shirt. He tugs a jacket on overtop his tee shirt, pops two Adderall pills, and joins Minho, who's ready to go, on the couch. Thomas rakes his hand through his hair. It's quiet, and it's dark. He checks his phone once again. It reads 11:28. Thomas huffs out a breath and looks at his friend.

"Are you ready for this?" he asks. Minho doesn't reply right away.

"...I don't know," he finally answers. "As ready as I'll ever be, I guess."

Thomas nods in agreement and checks his phone. 11:31.

"Well," he says, standing. "Come on, they should be waiting for us."

Minho half-nods and walks out the door with Thomas. Thomas carefully shuts it behind them, doing his best to keep it quiet as to not wake up his father. The two Gladers join the girls in the SUV.

"Where's Peter the Creeper?" Minho asks.

"He's meeting us there. So's my dad," Allison explains. She's wearing an all-black outfit. "My dad will cover us if a fight does break out. Peter will alert the rest of the pack, then help us out."

Thomas nods in understanding and looks out the window as the town goes by. After about five minutes, they reach the Preserve. Allison parks the vehicle half of a mile away from the Hale House and everyone files out. Lydia walks to the back and opens the trunk. Thomas stares at the wide variety of weaponry. 

Allison grabs the compound bow on top, along with a dagger. She gestures to the assortment.

"Grab something and let's go," she says. Thomas ends up with a wooden baseball bat. Minho grabs two different knives. Lydia, with an uncomfortable expression, takes a dagger for herself. To Thomas's surprise, Rachel grabs a pistol.

"Do you know how to use that?" he whispers. Rachel rolls her eyes at him and nods. Allison shuts the trunk of the SUV, and the five of them silently follow the dirt path to the house. When they reach the clearing out front, Thomas checks his phone once again for the time.

11:57 PM.

He pockets the device, plants the dull end of the bat on the ground, and leans his weight on it. His eyes have adjusted to the light given from the full moon and he looks around the trees, trying to spot either Peter or Argent.

"Oh, I see you've arrived early. I do appreciate the punctuality."

Thomas snaps his eyes to the speaker. The man's voice lilts with an accent, and even at night, he's wearing a pair of sunglasses. He holds a cane in his left hand.

"You're blind," Thomas says, realizing. The man smiles.

"Yes, I am," he agrees, reaching up to pull off his sunglasses. He's close enough that Thomas can see his eyes go from milky white to dark red. Not just the irises, but the entire eye.

"Now," the man says, placing the sunglasses back on his face, "where is your alpha?"

"He's not here," Allison says. The man laughs.

"I realized as much, sweetheart. I believe I asked where he is, not whether he is here."

Thomas steps forward, relaxing just slightly now that they have the upper hand. "It doesn't matter where he is. We're here on behalf of the Hale Pack, and we'd like to speak peacefully, if that's all right with you."

He keeps his voice even and steady. This, he can do.

Even so, the alpha laughs. "And who are you in relation to the alpha, boy?" he says with the slightest of sneers. His face sobers, and his voice becomes more serious.

"Do you know who I am, Thomas?" he asks. Thomas is caught off-guard. He stares at him. How could the alpha know his name? Not even his  _real_ name, but the one he had in the Maze.

"No," Thomas says slowly, smoothing out his surprised expression into something cold. The smile returns to the man's face.

"I am Deucalion. I am the alpha of alphas. I am the apex predator of apex predators!" His voice becomes a roar. "I am _Death_ , _destroyer_ of worlds! I am the Demon-Wolf!"

Deucalion whips his head to the left.

"Kali!" he barks. Almost at once, a woman emerges from the trees, falling into place on the left side of her leader. There's a wicked smile on her face. Thomas notices that she is not wearing shoes.

And her toenails are sharpened claws.

"Damn, she needs a pedicure," Minho whispers. The woman snarls at him, looking quite ready to leap forward and rip out his throat. Deucalion raises a hand, and her growls die off.

"Teresa!" Deucalion calls. Thomas's heart flutters at the name.

When the girl steps into the clearing, Thomas can't keep the cold mask of indifference on his face.

It's her.

It's actually _her_.

"Teresa?" he says, his voice a disbelieving whisper. She ignores him and falls to Deucalion's other side.

"Dude, what the hell?" Minho hisses in Thomas's ear. Thomas wants to give him a response, but he doesn't know what to say.

"Ethan, Aiden," Deucalion says. Another pair of werewolves walk towards them. The twins; the ones from yesterday. They stand on either side of Teresa and Kali, forming a V-shape with Deucalion front and center of the pack.

"Now, Thomas," Deucalion continues. "You said you'd like to speak on your alpha's behalf."

Thomas swallows back the urge to be sick. "Yes."

Kali's smile widens.

"Excellent," Deucalion says. He begins to pace. Slowly. Deliberately. "You know, when we first came here to Beacon Hills, it was with every intention to get Derek into our pack. That, or kill him. However, Kali here happened to find Teresa, all alone and lost. So, naturally, we decided to help her. She began to tell us all sorts of interesting things; about you, in particular, Thomas."

Allison and Lydia are both openly staring at Thomas now. He shifts nervously.

"Then, she began telling us about how you two would communicate telepathically, and, well, we were curious. Come to find out, there's a wild assortment of things she can do," Deucalion says delightedly. "Teresa, sweetheart, would you care to give them an example?"

Teresa steps forward, expression of boredom unchanging, and raises a hand. Minho yelps as his feet lift from the ground and he goes flying into the trunk of a tree. He wheezes, the breath knocked out of him, and Teresa holds him there.

"So," Deucalion continues, "we began to figure, if she can do these things, what about you? After all, Teresa even told us you were the…'Final Candidate' of sorts. She said you were always the strongest."

"Let go of him," Thomas croaks, looking straight at Teresa. He's ignored by everyone.

Deucalion proceeds. "You could say our goal in coming here has changed. Of course, we'd still be delighted to have Derek, but we have a bigger priority. You, Thomas. If you come with us now, no one needs to get hurt."

"Well, you shanks can't have him," Minho gasps out. Thomas glares at Teresa, who presses Minho even harder into the tree.

"Stop it!" Thomas snaps, suddenly furious, and he uses his own power to send her flying across the clearing. She hits the ground on her back, and Minho kneels down on the ground, regaining his breath. Thomas looks over from Teresa, who rises to her feet, to Deucalion, who is grinning like a cat who got the cream.

"Very nice," he says approvingly. "Come with us, Thomas. You'll continue to grow your abilities, and you'll be even stronger. You'll be  _untouchable_."

"No," Thomas says immediately. "Never."

Deucalion nods, as though he was expecting this answer. "I expected you to say as much. Ennis!"

Another figure steps from the trees. He's tall and bulky, but more importantly, he's dragging someone with him. Thomas is frozen at the sight of him.

From somewhere behind Thomas, Minho squeaks.

"Chuck?" Minho whispers. Thomas can't take his eyes off the boy. He watched him die. He _held_ him as he died.

"Thomas, what's going on?" Chuck says, voice brimming with distress and tears. Thomas pulls his gaze from the boy he considers to be a brother and looks at Deucalion.

"Now," Deucalion begins, "you can either come with us, or..."

Ennis puts his claws up against Chuck's throat, and the boy sobs.

Everything is spinning wildly out of control. Thomas doesn't know what to do.

 

The answer presents itself in the oddest way.

Ennis dies seconds after the two bullets pierce his skull. Thomas knows because even a werewolf can't heal that kind of damage.

His huge body hits the ground, and everything becomes a whirlwind of claws and fangs. A roaring howl seems to shake the ground.

Kali sprints at Thomas, and he swings his bat as hard as he can. It connects with her ribs, and she goes down. But she leaps right back to her feet.

"You little  _brat_ ," she snarls at him. Thomas dodges just in time to avoid her nasty toe claws ripping him open. They catch and cut through his shoulder instead of his throat, and Thomas stumbles backward. Kali, ready to roundhouse kick the shit out of him, gets tackled by Peter before she can.

"Stiles, get out of here!" Scott roars, throwing himself into the skirmish after Isaac and Derek. Thomas doesn't listen; he's looking for someone.

He spots him on the ground, pinned down by Ennis's still body.

"Chuck!" Thomas screams, avoiding a set of flying claws as he races over to the boy. Thomas lifts the body off of Chuck and yanks the boy to his feet.

"Go find Minho and get out of here! Go!" he orders, pushing the kid away from the fight. Thomas, on the edge of the battle, uses the moment of safety to focus.

 _Minho, get Chuck and get him out of here!_ he says. He doesn't bother to listen for a reply as he weaves his way back into the fight. He looks around.

Deucalion is absolutely nowhere to be seen. Neither is Teresa.

"Where'd they go?" Thomas yells once he finds himself next to Allison. She shakes her head.

"I don't know!" she says, head whipping around. "But I do know they're outnumbered!"

She's right. The twins are being tag-teamed by Isaac and Scott, and Jackson and Peter. Derek and Kali are trading blows so quickly that Thomas becomes dizzy watching. He's sure of one thing though; Kali is whooping Derek's ass. It's when she kicks him in the face and sends him to the ground that Thomas sprints over to help. He rears back with the bat and strikes as hard as he can against her side. She screams in shock and falls to her knees, clutching her ribs.

Before Thomas can get in another hit, or before Derek can get up, Kali staggers to her feet, looks around, and sprints off into the woods. The twins, seeing they're the only ones left, flee just as fast. Jackson looks ready to chase after them, but Scott shakes his head.

"No, don't," he says. "Just don't."

Jackson listens for once and instead goes over to Lydia, who stares at the bloody clearing in shock.

Thomas knows he should feel a sense of victory after beating the alphas, but he doesn't. He only feels tired. Tired and confused. Teresa...she's  _with_ them.

"Is everyone okay?" Argent asks, eyes lingering on each person at a time.

Chuck and Minho are poised at the edge of the clearing, and Minho nods when eyes land on him and Chuck.

"Where's Rachel?" Lydia says suddenly. Thomas looks, and the only body in the clearing is Ennis's. He should be happy about that, too.

Instead, he feels sick.

"They'll be back," Derek says, finally getting to his feet. He's sporting several open wounds and gashes. His thigh is practically shredded.

"I know," Argent agrees. "But with any luck, it won't be for a while."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas has a bit of a breakdown (yes, another one, he's been through a lot), Minho is done putting up with Thomas's shit, and Lydia proposes an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: I have gone through previous chapters and edited out certain details, simply because they were unnecessary.
> 
> I know it's been a while since I've posted, and this chapter isn't the best, but there's been a lot of crap going on in my life, and a lot of stress.
> 
> I'm dedicating this chapter to Noah. I didn't really know you all that much, but we really miss you here. We're lost without you, buddy.

"There, I'm done."

Thomas looks down at his shoulder. The three cuts have been completely cleaned. He shoots Scott's mom a grateful smile as she wraps bandages around the area.

"How is he?" Scott asks, bustling into his bedroom. His eyebrows are pinched downward in worry and he's tense with nervous energy.

"He'll be fine, Scott," Melissa says. "I know Allison said you can be turned from scratch, but these weren't even deep enough to warrant stitches. Plus, he would have started healing by now, right?"

Scott visibly relaxes and nods.

"Yeah, he would've," Scott says. He clears his throat and glances over his shoulder, the worry returning to his face. He hesitates.

"I, um... Stiles, I have to talk to you."

Melissa pats Thomas on the other shoulder.

"You're good to go," she says, smiling weakly and leaving the room. Thomas remains sitting on the edge of Scott's bed, frowning at the werewolf.

"What's up?" he asks, really not liking the somber look on Scott's face. A thought strikes Thomas. "Is Derek okay? He...he's alive, right?"

Scott nods. "Yeah, Derek's fine. He's at Deaton's with Isaac, Lydia, and Jackson," he says. He sighs heavily and gives Thomas a mournful look. "Minho and Chuck are downstairs."

At Thomas's alarmed expression, Scott hastily adds: "They're both fine, don't worry."

Thomas waits for Scott to continue, but he seems to be unable to force the words out.

Silence engulfs the room.

"So, no sign of Rachel, then?" Thomas asks. Scott winces.

"No, not yet. Isaac and I… we tried following the scent trail, but it just disappears a few yards from the fight. I think..." Scott hesitates. "I think it might have something to do with your friend's abilities."

An array of emotions rages through him.

_She's alive._

_She's a traitor._

_She...she..._

"She's not my friend." It comes out weak and uncertain.

He pauses for a long moment. When he speaks again, his tone is colder than Scott's ever heard come from his best friend.

"Not anymore."

* * *

Chuck refuses to leave Thomas's side. It would be endearing, if Thomas could think past Teresa's most recent betrayal.

Scott drives the four of them to the vet to meet up with the others.

Contrary to what Scott had said, Derek is definitely  _not_ fine. Deaton nearly exhausts his supply of sutures with how many stitches he has to sew into the alpha.

"Why aren't they just healing?" Minho asks.

"Wounds inflicted from an alpha take longer to heal," Deaton explains. He tucks the scissors and remaining thread away in a drawer. "He will be fine in a few days, but the stitches will help...hold him together, so to speak."

"Who was the girl?" Derek asks as he sits upright, voice hard. The room plunges into a thick silence.

"You know who she is," Thomas answers tiredly. "I told you, she died saving my life, remember?"

"Then how to _hell_ is she alive, Stiles?" 

Something in Thomas snaps. "Do I look like I fucking know? How is Rachel alive? How is Chuck? I want answers _just_ as bad as you guys do, so stop looking at me like I know what's going on! Chuck literally died  _in my arms_ , and look at him! He's perfectly fine!"

Chuck pales, but Thomas is too enraged to even notice, let alone feel guilty for it.

"Teresa was  _crushed_. Part of the ceiling fucking fell on her.  _Her entire body_ was buried under the concrete," he heaves. "I don't know any more than you guys do. I have no idea why some of us are showing up, but not others. If Chuck and Teresa and Rachel survived, that means everyone else should have too. But where's Alby? Where's Ben? And Winston? And Jeff? And Zart? And where the fuck is Newt?"

Thomas's words are no longer directed at Derek. He has no idea who he's speaking to anymore, just that he's furious at anyone, at _everyone_ who let this happen.

The room has fallen silent. A quick glance at Minho shows that he's completely gobsmacked at the current breakdown that seems to be happening.

It feels long overdue.

Thomas is shaking with pent-up fury. Deaton takes a small step towards him, hands out in what is likely meant to be a calming gesture.

"Stiles, you need to—"

He needs to run. The need fills his veins with liquid fire, and he can barely breathe. He snakes his way through the mass of people, now little more than blurred faces.

And he does the only thing he's ever been good at; he runs.

 

When awareness returns to him, he's alone. Trees surround him, leering through the darkness. He's in the Preserve somewhere. He slows to a stop, heaving for air.

His lungs burn and his legs ache. His heart pounds wildly in his chest.

He sucks in a breath. It catches in his throat and escapes as a sob. He looks up at the full moon, and the encompassing rage returns all at once.

He throws his arms wide, which pulls at the scratches on his shoulder, and he cranes his head towards the sky.

"Where are you!" he screams at the sky. " _Where are you_!"

His breath catches. He lowers his arms.

"Where are you?" he whispers.

He doesn't expect an answer, and he doesn't get one.

* * *

"You don't look so good. Maybe you shouldn't go to school today."

Thomas glances up at his father. He's standing in the doorway. The worry lines in his face have deepened incredibly in the past few weeks.

A wave of guilt crashes over him. He aims a smile towards his father, though it feels brittle and fake.

"...Is that okay?" he asks, hesitant.

"Of course, kid. I'll call the school, let 'em know you and Minho won't be there."

Thomas is struck with nothing but gratitude for the man in front of him. His smile becomes something genuine.

"Thanks," he says. His dad nods.

"Minho's down in the kitchen making something. Chuck's with him." Hesitation flits across his face. "We'll have to enroll him in school. Stiles, I can't keep taking in kids like this. Minho _could_  pass off as eighteen, but there's no way Chuck can. We gotta find his parents."

"I know," Thomas agrees. It's not the number one thing on his list of priorities right now, but he knows. He also knows that he owes the boy an apology.

"Well, I'm gonna send out a report," he says. He rubs at his tired face. "You turned up close to where you live, so maybe these boys did too? Hell, I don't even know what to think anymore, Mieczyslaw."

Something twists inside Thomas at hearing the name. "I know how you feel, believe me."

"Yeah, well, I gotta go to work." He turns to leave, but Thomas stops him.

"Hey, dad?" The Sheriff turns to look at him.

Thomas's throat closes up. "Thank you," he says.

"Of course, kid," his father replies with a smile. It reaches all the way to his kind eyes.

He leaves.

Thomas sits for a long while before steeling himself to go downstairs. The familiar smell of bacon grease hits him as soon as he reaches the living room. Minho is struggling to flip something in a pan, and Chuck is squinting at the TV from the couch.

Thomas sits next to the boy, and Chuck jumps.

"Oh, h-hey, Thomas," Chuck stammers. They sit in silence, staring at the TV. Thomas notes, inattentively, that the main character looks vaguely familiar.

When the guilt from last night finally threatens to drown him, Thomas can't hold his tongue any longer.

"I'm sorry, Chuck," he says. "Last night, I shouldn't have said what I said."

"It wasn't cool," Chuck agrees.

"Totally not cool," Thomas nods. He pauses, looks over at his friend. "Do you forgive me?"

To Thomas's surprise, Chuck snorts out a laugh. "Of course I do, ya klunk. You're Thomas; how could I not?"

Thomas tries to fight back the smile, but it rises to his lips anyway. "Thanks, shuck-face."

"Bacon's done!" Minho calls. "Chuck, how many pieces do you want?"

"Just give me whatever, I don't care!" Chuck responds, turning the volume down on the TV a bit.

Minho exits the kitchen with two plates, each filled with strips of bacon, scrambled eggs, and extremely burnt toast. Minho hands one to Chuck and keeps one, settling down on the opposite side of him. Thomas frowns.

"What, I don't get any?" he jokes. It becomes extremely awkward, however, when Minho gives no reply. Thomas's frown deepens, but he doesn't speak up again.

"So, what're we watching, Chuck?" Minho asks pointedly, not even sparing Thomas a second glance. It's quite clear that the boy is angry at him.

"I don't know," Chuck says after a brief hesitation, glancing between Thomas and Minho. "Some movie called  _American Assassin_."

Minho nods. "Sounds cool."

"Minho—" Thomas tries.

"So what's it about?" the Runner interrupts. Thomas grits his teeth, frustration itching at him.

"Minho, can we talk?" Thomas asks, exasperated.

Finally,  _finally_ Minho looks at him. His expression is colder than anything Thomas has seen on him. It doesn't suit him, and honestly, it's unsettling.

"Chuck, I'll be right back," Minho says, rising from the couch. He sets his plate on the coffee table and walks upstairs, not bothering to wait for Thomas.

"Minho?" Thomas says, entering his room. He closes the door behind him. "Minho, what—"

"You're a selfish bastard, you know that?"

Thomas is rendered speechless, not only by Minho's words, but the tone of them. His expression is stone-cold, and it's a shocking contrast to the heated fury in his voice. His flinty stare doesn't leave Thomas, and he steps towards him.

"I know you got problems." Minho laughs, a sound so bitter that Thomas flinches at the sound of it. "We both do. But you don't see me throwin' a hissy fit, runnin' off like a shucking crybaby Greenie who can't deal."

Minho shakes his head, disgust evident in his pinched features, and the first spark of anger pools low in Thomas's stomach.

"That's not—"

"No, Thomas," Minho spits, suddenly enraged. He storms closer, shoves his finger in Thomas's face. "You listen to _me_ now. I'm done listenin' to you whine and cry. You shut your shuck mouth and you let _me_ talk for once. You listenin', Thomas?"

He grits his teeth, swallowing the words that rise up his throat like bile, and he nods.

"Good," Minho huffs. He takes a step back, giving Thomas his personal space.

Minho presses his fingers to his temples, closes his eyes, and sighs.

"God," he mumbles. The anger has left his tone, leaving only weariness behind. "Look, Thomas, I know it's hard right now. Shuck, I get it. We've been walking on eggshells for months now. For me, it feels closer to years, even though I guess the time had to be a simulation. And now, to be thrown into a whole new issue without any time to take a breath? It  _sucks_. I know it does. But you know what we do?"

Minho's expression hardens. "You know what we do?" he repeats. "We stay strong. We take it. We treat it just like it's another Variable. Just another Trial. We grit our shuck teeth and we bear it until it's all over, 'cause we ain't got the choice to be breaking down. Not yet. We hold it together and  _we take it_. Just like we've always done. If you're gonna be losin' your mind, you're gonna shucking wait 'til we get this mess sorted out. So pull yourself together."

Minho pauses. "Thomas," he says. Thomas looks up from his feet, a muscle in his jaw ticking from how tightly his teeth are clamped together. Minho's expression softens. "You get me?"

It takes a moment for Thomas to relax his jaw enough to open his mouth. His words taste like ash on his tongue, where they would've been fueled with fire. His tone is flat, where it would've been biting and cruel.

"Then I guess now's not a good time to tell you that I killed Newt?"

Minho blanches, his face twisting through a myriad of emotions before settling on grim resolve. His lips press together in a thin line. The smile he delivers is forced and fake, looking more like a grimace of pain. "You always got the worst timing on klunk, you damn shuck-face."

"I…"

Minho is shaking his head, and Thomas's explanation dies in his throat.

"I don't want to hear it. Not right now. We grit our teeth and bear it, remember? You tell me later, but not—" Minho's voice cracks. "…not right now, Thomas."

"Okay," Thomas agrees, his voice hoarse with barely suppressed emotion.

"Let's go downstairs and watch this movie with Chuck. I left you some bacon."

* * *

Thomas remains silent, opting to focus on the bestiary in front of him rather than join in the whispered shouts of protest.

"There's no way," Isaac states.

"I don't know, Lydia…" Allison hesitates.

"Are you crazy?" Jackson snaps harshly.

"That'll never work!" Scott agrees with the others in a hushed voice. He shakes his head. "You did  _see_ us team up on them during the fight, right? They're probably pissed at us."

Thomas looks up from the book to see Lydia narrow her eyes and toss her hair over one shoulder. She spares a glance to the librarian, and Thomas follows her gaze. The teacher is scowling at them, looking only seconds from storming over and telling them off.

Thomas clears his throat lightly. He pauses momentarily, not expecting everyone to snap their heads towards him, and he awkwardly clears his throat once more.

"I, um, I actually think it could work," he says lowly. "We just have to offer something better than whatever Deucalion is offering them."

Jackson sneers at him. "You honestly think that you can get the twins on our side?"

"If we can come to a compromise, yeah, I think we can," Thomas states.

"I agree with Thomas here," Minho says. Scott frowns.

"Who's Thom—" His eyes widen with the realization mid-sentence, "—ahh, never mind. So, uhh, how would we do it then? And we still have to get Derek on board, if we want to try this."

Thomas chews on his lip in thought. "We get Peter to get through to Derek."

The library table falls silent. Jackson slowly begins shaking his head.

"You must've gotten your brain banged around more than I thought, Stilinski," he whispers. Isaac elbows him in the ribs, and Jackson winces.

Allison purses her lips and gives a delicate smile. "Maybe…maybe explain why you think that's a good idea?"

Thomas nods. "Peter's a sweet-talker. No one really likes him, but he's Derek's family, and Derek listens to him, whether he'll admit to it or not. Peter's probably the only one who can convince Derek to agree with this."

"…In a twisted way, it makes sense," Scott says slowly. "But I still don't see what we can say to the twins to get them to agree."

"They aren't going to listen to anything we have to say," Jackson hisses under his breath. 

"No," Thomas agrees. "That's why we _make_  them listen. I've got an idea."

 

Kidnapping the twin alphas after school is unnervingly easy.

"This is a terrible idea," Minho whispers. He fidgets with the dagger in his hand.

"I'm starting to agree with you," Thomas replies quietly. "Why did they listen to  _my_ plan?"

"That's a good question, shank," Minho says with a disbelieving shake of his head as Scott, Jackson, Isaac, and Peter drag the twin alphas into the loft. Derek pushes himself off of his desk and walks to the center of the room. The alphas are forced to their knees. The one on the left looks worried, though the one on the right bares his teeth in a grin.

"You wanted to talk?" says the one on the right.

"Aiden—"

"No, Ethan, I want to hear what they've got to say," Aiden continues. He looks up at Derek. "Well?"

Derek glares and opens his mouth, but Scott hastily pads forward.

"We can offer you a place in our pack," Scott says bluntly. Aiden's mouth audibly snaps shut, while Ethan's jaw drops in shock.

"Thanks, Scott," Derek says sarcastically, turning to glower at his beta. Scott smiles through his discomfort and takes a small step back, positioning himself slightly behind Derek rather than shoulder-to-shoulder with him.

 _Must be a wolf thing_ , Thomas thinks offhandedly.

"And why do you think we'd want that?" Aiden says, slowly rising to his feet. "We're alphas. If we join your pack, we'd get demoted to betas."

"Better than omegas. Better than being dead," Derek says brusquely. Ethan stands up next to his brother, but neither seem ready to bolt. Jackson and Isaac walk around them and join Derek and Scott, while Peter moves to stand in front of the loft's door like a bodyguard.

"You don't know anything!" Ethan snaps.

"I know that Deucalion isn't satisfied with either of you. I know that he wanted you to prove yourselves by taking Erica and Boyd, and I know he wants you to prove yourselves by killing them when the time comes to it, and you won't be able to do it. Am I right?"

Aiden snarls, but gives no verbal answer. Derek takes this as an affirmation and continues.

"We can guarantee you a place here," he says. "But you have to get us information first."

"You want us to spy?" Ethan says in disbelief.

"I want you to tell us what you know," Derek says simply.

"Who says we won't just kill your betas?" Aiden growls. "What makes you think we won't be able to do it?"

Derek _smiles_. "You haven't done it yet."

Neither twin responds.

"Deucalion wanted you to kill them to make a _statement_ to me, not just take them. You didn't do it. So, you told him it would be smarter to use them as bait; that's the only reason he hasn't killed you yet. Because you're still useful to him."

Thomas gapes as the twin alphas exchange a series of looks. It had been a _hunch_ , but Thomas hadn't expected it to necessarily be  _true_.

"What do you want to know?" Aiden finally says. Thomas ditches Minho and pushes forward to stand in front of the alphas.

"The girl, Teresa," he says.

Ethan frowns. "What about her?"

"Everything," Thomas says. "Tell me everything you can."

Aiden speaks.

"Kali caught scent of her and we followed it. We found her a town over, wandering the warehouse district and mumbling 'WICKED is good', over and over." He shrugs. "She wasn't making any sense, and she was clearly half out of her mind, but she smelled like _strong_ magic, kind of like you."

Thomas wonders why the pack never mentioned such a thing to him. He gestures for Aiden to continue.

"Well," Ethan jumps in, "like he said, she was half out of her mind, so it wasn't hard for Kali to get her to spill everything. She talked about you, and others…she's got _power_. She kept leading us to people like her. Not magic, I mean, but a bunch of kids our age. It was weird. Out of each one we found, none could remember who they were. It made it easy to get them to come with us; especially since most of them seemed to know Teresa."

Thomas's heart pounds in his chest. "Where are they now?" he asks.

"Deucalion's keeping them with Erica and Boyd. He won't tell us wherever that is. I think the plan is to use them as bait for you guys," Aiden says. He switches subjects. "You need to listen, though. Your friend isn't the same as when you knew her. Kali managed to twist her way into Teresa's mind. Teresa kept saying that this was another 'Trial', whatever that means, and Kali kept agreeing with her, and I'm pretty sure Teresa thinks we work for this 'WICKED' organization. Kali convinced her that we either have to get you on our side, Thomas, or kill you if you keep fighting against us."

When Thomas can't vocalize another word, Minho moves forward to join him.

"What are the names of the kids you've found?" Minho demands. Aiden gives him a look like he's crazy, and he snorts.

"Why the hell would we know? It's not like we talk to them," Aiden says. "We're not even allowed to watch them. Deucalion doesn't trust us enough. That's Teresa's and Janson's job."

Thomas perks up upon hearing the name. "Janson?"

"Yeah, some old dude Teresa found. If we thought _she_ was crazy…" Aiden whistles out a breath, "this guy's on a whole different  _level_ of insane. The only reason he's been listening to Deucalion so far is because he promised that Janson can kill you. Not that he's actually allowed to, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him."

"What about Rachel?" Lydia says, speaking up for the first time. "She went missing at the fight."

Ethan and Aiden exchange a look.

"She…Teresa managed to grab her almost as soon as Ennis died. She's been with the others, but apparently she can do magic too, and Kali's spent the past few days trying to get Rachel in the pack like Teresa," Ethan explains.

Thomas has to sit down with how much his head is spinning.

There's actually not much else the twins are able to tell them. Deucalion hasn't entrusted them with much information, so they can't tell Derek any dates or times or any plans of attack. From what Thomas gathers, the twins have only stayed with the Alpha Pack thus far because Deucalion would've hunted them down and killed them if they left.

"You'll let us know whenever you find anything out?" Derek demands. He's visibly disappointed by the lack of information he got from the twins.

Ethan nods. "We'll find a way to tell you, don't worry."

"Can we go now?" Aiden asks impatiently. "We gotta get the scent of your pack off of us before we go back, or else Deucalion will be suspicious."

"Yes, leave," Derek states, gesturing to the door.

One of the twins shuts the door behind them, and the loft plunges into silence. Jackson whistles lowly.

"That went surprisingly well," he says. He raises an eyebrow at Thomas. "Not such a bad idea, after all, Stilinski."

"We learned almost nothing," Derek growls. Thomas shakes his head.

"No, that's not true," he argues. "We've got the twins on our side now. We know that Erica and Boyd and Rachel are alive. Whenever the next attack happens, we'll have the element of surprise, We'll have the upper hand."

Scott nods slowly, processing the information. He fixes his eyes on Thomas's. "We can beat them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My motivation for this fic has seriously spiraled. I know what events I want to happen, I think I know how I want it to end, but I don't know how to GET there and it's honestly killing me. And when this happens, my writing tends to worsen.
> 
> Yes, I realize how badly-written this fic is. But, fuck, if I'm not trying so damn hard for you guys.


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